


Shadow Borne

by lorcathegreat



Series: Shadow Borne: Garrett's Origins [1]
Category: Thief (Video Games)
Genre: Child neglect/abuse, Coming of Age, Grief, Origins, Orphanage, death of parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-12 01:46:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 70,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2091204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorcathegreat/pseuds/lorcathegreat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Garrett was in pain and he did not know where he was. He was in pain and his parents were not there to comfort him. He was in pain and this was not a dream. The shadows were the only thing that brought him solace. He knew what was in the darkness. He was alone and in that he was safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well here you have it. I've been wanting to write an origin story for Garrett and now I've delved into it.  
> I'll hopefully get back into my once a week updates, but no guarantees.

(Cover by the lovely [brohne](http://archiveofourown.org/users/brohne/pseuds/brohne))

 

It was dark. At first that was the only fact that Garrett knew for certain. In fact, all he truly knew were what his senses told him. The blanket was scratchy beneath him and he could hear the steady, deep pulls of breath of a number of sleeping individuals about him. And there was dark. Not the dark of night laced with moonlight, not the dark of hiding in a closet, playfully awaiting someone to find him. Those things Garrett knew. That was the dark that Garrett understood. This was unknown. It made his skin crawl, an uneasy tightness creeping deep in his chest.

Nothing made sense. Not that much in the world makes sense to a boy who had only spent six years in it.

Every sense alert, Garrett observed all that he could. The blanket under his palms where he sat was scratchy. That he had established first. As his eyes adjusted, he swept his gaze about him. He was in a dark room, two walls lined with metal cots, one of which he was seated upon. Lying atop each cot a child huddled in a blanket against the drafty cold.

This was not his bedroom, not that he imagined it was. It was a simple fact that Garrett stored away in his attempt to make sense of the calamity that had brought him here. He continued making a list of the facts; anything to keep the constricting panic at bay. The thin mattress he sat upon was not his bed. When he looked up, there was no moonlight streaming through his bedroom window. There were no windows in this room, or if there was it was heavily covered. The air he breathed almost seemed too thin, the chill of it sticking to the back of his throat.

Garrett shivered, pulling the single blanket over him. He fought the heaviness of his eyelids, still intent on wanting to know just where he was. He needed to know something certain. The unfamiliar darkness pressed down on him and he moved with it, lying down on the cot with the blanket pulled tightly about him. He stayed there for a moment but no one came to soothe his worry. He found his mind wandering, brushed a memory, and shrank back from it. A chill passed through him. He did not want to remember. The noise, the confusion… none of it made sense.

Despite his best efforts, Garrett’s mind betrayed him and he delved into those memories that so recently had spun his life into a maelstrom wrought with nightmares.

The last event that had made sense was his mama tucking him into bed. It had been peaceful, normal. He had been woken later by a loud commotion. He listened on, the noises sounding too close to be coming from the street. There were yells, a chilling shriek, thundering crashes… and all at once it came to a stifling silence. It had all transpired within moments, leaving Garrett shivering and petrified with fear. What little comfort he got from curling in his favorite blanket was smothered by the heavy weight of foreboding. He listened in on the silence for what felt like an eternity. He listened to his own breathing, to the thrum of blood rushing in his ears.

He did not know how long he lay there in that profound silence. It felt like hours until a second commotion erupted, even louder than the first. Garrett dared not breathe as he heard the steady tromp of someone walking up the stairs. Then there was a strange man in a helmet hovering over his bed, huge gloved hands reaching down for him. He clutched his sheets as tight as he could, felt his legs lock and tremble. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the nightmare to end, willing his parents to step beside him to wake him. Instead he was grabbed bodily and dragged from his comforting blankets. As soon as he was put down and his arm secured in a vice-like grip, Garrett had protested in any way a six year old could, screaming and pulling away from his captor. The man had only told him to quiet and continued dragging him along. Garrett had cried for his mama, for his papa, but they failed to come to his aid as they always had when he called for them. He must still be in the dream. His parents would come at any moment. They had to. They always did. It was the one certainty that Garrett had in his young life.

He was pulled down the stairs, his bare feet hardly able to catch him. Once his feet were on solid ground once more, he redoubled his efforts to break the grip on his arm. His mind was a flurry of questions. Who was the man pulling him? What had been that noise? Who had screamed? What had-

Wetness on his feet. Garrett stilled his frantic struggle for the briefest moment as he stared down. The floor was sticky. Had someone broken a jar of jam? Garrett had done that once and had stepped on a shard of glass. Stopping in his tracks, he attempted to step around the dark pool on the floor. The effort was lost as the man pulling him gave an unrelenting tug at his arm. Righting himself, he wiped the tears from his cheeks and finally looked about him. There were guards from the City Watch standing about his unlit house, two limp and contorted figures lying on the floor. As he watched, one of the helmeted men covered the figures with a cloth. Garrett took in the scene for as long as he could before the guard dragged him out the front door.

It was dark. Garrett was not allowed out of the house after dusk. He turned to see the door to his house growing further and further away. Where were his mama and papa? Garrett stumbled on the cobblestone street, his feet still sticky. He stubbed his toe and his tears returned.

The trip across the City was a blur of twists and turns, the street lamps blinding and the shadows behind them haunting. Eventually he was pulled into a building and one grip on his arm was exchanged for another. He was again dragged away though now he simply complied, wiping the tears from his cheeks.

That was when he was set down on the scratchy cot in the dark room, surrounded by sleeping children. He was left alone, his wild storming questions gone unanswered.

His intrusive reminiscing had done nothing to still his thoughts. If anything, they made his questions even more urgent. Why had he been taken here? Where were his parents? Why had he not woken up yet?

“Mama?” Garrett’s voice quivered, the tears welling again. “Papa?” His voice grew in strength as he called out, clenched fists in the scratchy blanket quivering. “Mama?” There were no footsteps outside his bedroom door, no warm light filling the room, no comforting arms about him. He did not like this dream. A sob worked its way up into his throat. “Papa!”

“Shh!” A sharp hiss from just beside him stilled his wail. “Don’t let the Matron hear you.”

Just hearing another person’s voice calmed his panic. It brought him back to some semblance of reality. “Matron?” The name was strange to Garrett. He wiped the tears from his cheeks on now soggy sleeves.

“She runs this place,” the other boy whispered.

“Where am I?” Garrett’s words were muddled with tears once more, breaths gasping and stuttering. “Where are Mama and Papa?”

The boy hushed Garrett again, his tone grave for a boy so young. “Once you come here, you never see your parents again. They are gone forever.”

Gone? Forever? The concepts were so foreign. Garrett could barely comprehend the room he was in, let alone the idea that two people who were so integral to his life would never come back. They were his parents. They always came back. Even when his papa had gone away for a long time for work, he came back. He shook his head, though in the dark the gesture went unseen. “No, they are at home.” He just needed to get back. They would be there. They would be waiting.

“This is your home now. It’s all of our homes. Be quiet before the Stick comes by and catches both of us awake.” The boy shifted on his cot, tucking the blanket tighter about himself.

Just like that, Garrett was left alone in the dark once more with no fewer questions.

What woke him again was a thundering bang. Not sure just when he had fallen asleep, Garrett jolted upright. He half expected to see that helmeted man hovering over him, but as he glanced about he saw he was nowhere near his old bedroom. He was in a room with cobblestone walls with a worn wooden floor, cots on two sides. The same room he had fallen asleep in. The light filling the space came from an open door. Garrett’s gaze came to rest upon the figure standing at the entrance. The wooden door cracking against the stone wall must have been the noise that had awoken him.

“Wake up, children!” The stern voice that raked out from the figure was that of a man and not one that Garrett knew. In a few swift steps, every other one punctuated by the crack of a cane on the floor, the stooped man made his way to the back of the room and pulled aside a set of heavy curtains. Garrett blinked at the sudden stream of light, filtered through thick warped glass. He glanced about, the children surrounding him stirring reluctantly. He tried to spot the boy he had spoken to the night before, but he was lost amongst the swarm of children standing and spreading their blankets smoothly over their beds.

So lost in observing, Garrett failed to notice the man step up beside him. “You, new boy. Get up.” Garrett turned to look up at the man, his bewilderment rendering him frozen in place. The man had a bushy gray moustache that melted into a short bushy beard, the top of his head covered with a hat that at one point had a shape to it. Garrett could not help but stare, but his awe was cut short. There was a sharp rap on his back, pain blooming soon afterwards. So in shock, he barely registered the man withdraw his cane. There was pain. He was in pain and he did not know where he was. He was in pain and his parents were not there to comfort him. He was a pain and this was not a dream.

His vision blurred; he felt tears drip to his chin and land in his lap. A sob caught in his throat which made way for a wail, only to be redoubled as that cane connected with his back once more.

“Get up, boy!” The man’s voice was a growl. When Garrett did not comply, the back of his nightshirt was taken up by a large hand and he was heaved to his feet. “Make your bed and follow the others.” The man continued instructing him, but it was all Garrett could do to stand while he sobbed.

“For the love of-” The man snarled under his breath before turning Garrett bodily towards the door and giving him a swift shove. “Just _go_. You won’t get another warning.”

Finally able to follow the man’s order, Garrett stumbled out with the last of the children filtering out of the room. He wiped the tears from his eyes, the new surroundings too overwhelming to take in all at once. He followed the boy in front of him, only vaguely aware of where the hallway took them and which corners they turned down. The stream of boys eventually merged with a stream of girls and together they filed into a door. Beyond it was an open hall, two rows of long tables filling the middle. Some children were already seated with a bowl before them, the rest standing in a line off to the right. Garrett found himself in said line and soon he stood before a portly woman with more wrinkles on her face than hair on her head. A wooden bowl was presented before him and he took it automatically. He looked inside and saw it was full of a gray sludge. Just as he was looking at it, a warped metal spoon was dropped into it and he watched as the entirety of it sunk into the grey mess.

He glanced up at the woman, not entirely sure how to react. Luckily, he was spared that interaction as he was shoved aside by the boy behind him. He barely kept hold of his bowl and righted himself with some difficulty. The daze of sleep still hindered him, compounded with the profound confusion at his settings and circumstance. He almost felt like he were not inside his own body. Somehow Garrett found his way to an empty spot on a bench and stared down on what was supposedly his breakfast. The grey sludge stared back, concealing the spoon in its depths. It was a simple Matter to fish the utensil out, more so given that the porridge was barely warm.

The porridge was bland. What little flavor it offered came from the wooden barrel the dry meal was stored in. Garrett barely swallowed that single bite, pushing the bowl away from him and giving a silent vow to never touch the stuff again. When he got home, his mama would make him a better breakfast and his papa would head off to work.

Just then, another boy sat directly beside him. He was slightly older, his hair a scraggly dusty blond mess. Garrett simply stared up at him, eventually catching the older boy’s attention. He scrutinized Garrett, seeming to judge just who he was by that single look.

“You’re wearing pajamas?” The question was accusatory, scathing. The question caught Garrett off guard. Of all the things the boy could ask him, he asked him about his nightshirt and pants?

Not quite knowing how to approach the older boy, Garrett went on the defense. “My Mama dressed me before bed.”

“Your Mama?” The older boy scoffed at him, gouging out a scoop of porridge from his own bowl. “None of us here have a Mama.”

“I do, she is at home.” Garrett felt something in his chest harden as he grew even more defensive, though the seed of doubt deep in his gut had been planted.

“I doubt it,” was the reply, spoken through a mouthful of gray sludge. “So what was it? Got abandoned? Parents dead? Ran away?”

The words were like blows to Garrett’s gut, the seed of doubt sprouting roots. “I- I… a man took me out of my bed and brought me here. My parents always come back.” If he said it enough, if he believed enough…

The seed of doubt grew stronger.

“Sure they do. You met with the Matron yet?”

Thankful for the change of subject, though mind still rolling with thoughts of his parents, Garrett shook his head.

“Better be on your best behavior when you do.” He shook his spoon at Garrett, a warning in his voice. Garrett’s heart caught in his throat, remembering the sting of the stooped man’s cane. He did not want to be punished again. When he moved his back it was still sore. The older boy glanced at the almost untouched porridge sitting before Garrett. “You not eating?”

“My Mama makes better porridge,” he replied lowly, stubbornly.

The boy sighed. Whether it was from annoyance or sympathy, Garrett could not tell. “I’m sure she does, but this is what we get so eat up.”

Reluctantly, Garrett spooned the bland porridge into his mouth, chewing the sludge with a face. It certainly was not his mama’s porridge. It hardly resembled any porridge he had had in his few years of life.

Before he could swallow the bite the older boy jostled his shoulder, voice a harsh whisper. “Don’t make that face! Cook will be furious.”

Garrett forced himself to gulp the bite down and set his spoon on the table, staring woefully at the full bowl. “I don’t like it.”

“They’ll keep giving you that bowl for each meal until you finish it. Eat it or you won’t get lunch.”

That prospect was too worrying for Garrett to comprehend. No lunch? He had been sent to bed without dinner before and if missing lunch was anything as terrible as that… Garrett continued eating. All that kept him going were the reassurances he told himself. He would get his answers eventually. He would see his parents, he would go home. Everything would go back to normal. Eventually. He thought this, but the seed of doubt still flourished deep in his gut.


	2. Chapter 2

The answers he sought did not come soon enough. It was two days until the man with the cane, The Stick was his name, pulled him up from where he sat to lunch and brought him before the Matron. He had spent those two days in profound confusion, anxiousness redoubling every time a door opened and it was not his parents who stepped into the room. He remained adamant that they were coming for him, even in the face of the other children berating him for believing such nonsense. Once a child was brought there, they never went home. Garrett would not believe it, could not believe it.

The Stick, as the children dubbed him - that stooped fellow with a scruff of a beard and that wicked cane - pulled him into an office at the end of the dormitory hall. There Garrett stood, before a towering desk. The Stick left him without as much as an introduction. Glancing about the room, Garrett was struck by how restrictive it felt. Tall shelves held dusty books well out of his reach; the chair sitting in the corner looked like it would better be used for firewood rather than for sitting. All at once Garrett felt vulnerable in the open, not surrounded by the other children. At the same time he felt the high walls leaning towards him and he choked as they seemed to suffocate him.

“Well?” Garrett flinched at the shrill voice that filled the room. His wide stare rose to see a woman peering at him over the desk. Her face was long, shocking streaks of white cutting through her pure black hair like moonlight through a small window. It reminded Garrett of home. It was the only thing about the woman that reminded him of home. Everything else about her was sharp. She stared down upon him, eyebrows too thin, lips pursed and downturned. Garrett flinched again as her shrill voice pierced the confining space. “Speak up, boy.”

“W-w…” he stumbled over his words trying and failing to keep the tears from springing to his eyes. “Where are Mama and Papa?”

“Oh dear,” the woman sighed, sounding more annoyed than anything. “You are at my Orphanage. Child, your parents are dead.”

Garrett shook his head. “No, they are at home.” They had to be. They always were.

Another sharp sigh. “What’s your name…” there was a shuffle of paper on the desk, “Garrett?” She said his name with a disapproving sneer. “Age six. Not old enough to work, then. Says here your parents are dead and I’m inclined to believe the word of the City Watch.”

Dead? Garrett did not know the meaning of the word. No, he had seen it before. It was like the time he found the stray cat that usually came to their back window for food asleep under the stairs in his house. Except it had not been asleep. “Dead like Scraps?”

“Like what?” The Matron’s face contorted in distaste. She carried on, shrill voice frigid and distant. “Your parents were murdered in your house. The Watch still hasn’t found their killer and it was a wonder he didn’t find you too. You should be thankful you are still alive.”

It was like a stone fell through him, that heavy weight passing through turbid waters and clearing them leaving a deep well of stagnant blackness. “Murdered?” That was a word he only heard his parents whisper when they thought he was fast asleep in bed.

“Yes, a man killed them. You will live here until you come of age. The children here will be your family from now on.” The sentiment was there, but the delivery stern, formulaic.

Nothing made sense. His parents were gone? He was not going home? “But, but-!”

“Child, you will address me as Matron when you speak to me.” Her sharp, shrill tone caught Garrett’s tongue in his throat and he gulped down whatever uncertainty he was about to reveal.

“Yes, Matron,” he squeezed out of his constricted throat, determined to not let a sob escape. What was left of the seed of doubt had shriveled, leaving only an aching void left by the truth. He truly was alone.

The Matron nodded, appearing pleased by his restraint. “Do as you are told and keep quiet and your time here will go smoothly. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Matron,” Garrett repeated. It sounded all too much like the prison his papa had told him about. But why was he sent here? Why could he not just go home? He liked it at home.

“Now go get back to lunch.” It was an order, the hint of a threat if he did not immediately comply.

Garrett immediately complied. He quickly made his way down the hallway, barely remembering just what door led to the mess hall. When he found his seat again, his plate was gone. Garrett did not mind much as it had been a dry sandwich on even dryer bread. He did come to mind as the hours passed and his stomach complained loudly through the dull, droning “lessons” the children were forced to attend no Matter their age once a week. His growling stomach caught the attention of the surrounding children, sending them into fits of giggles. Embarrassing as that was, even more so was when the teacher stormed over, grabbed a swift and secure hold of his ear, and dragged him from the room.

The crow of a woman stilled his protests and apologies with a sharp scornful tongue. “I won’t have the children causing a ruckus in my classroom. Learn to control yourself!” She practically tossed him against the wall beside the classroom door. “Stay here until you can be silent.”

It was hopeless. He sat with his back to the stone wall, his mind a blur of confusion. His parents were… dead. That meant, like Scraps the cat, they were going to be buried and Garrett would never see them again. He had been sad about Scraps. His mama had been sad too. Now Garrett did not know what to feel. Scared, alone? He was not too sure. He had always looked to his parents to know what to do, how to feel. What was he without them? As his mind was a flurry of confusion, he felt his eyelids grow heavy, his eyesight blur.

The next he knew, there was an explosion of noise and suddenly he was back in his bedroom, his parents screaming for help, screaming his name. Garrett startled awake, tears in his eyes, cold sweat on his brow, and with a painful hammering in his chest. Children were pouring out of the classroom beside him, loudly making their presence known. Garrett forced himself to stand, his legs shaking and barely supporting him. It was all he could do to follow the stream of children, breath catching in his throat as he struggled to pull in air. The flock of children made its way to the yard behind the Orphanage. It was a tiny space with not much to offer, made smaller still by the number of children crowding in it.

Garrett, feeling in a daze after his sudden panic, found the secluded spot in the back corner of the lot that he had discovered the day before. It was not much; just a broad board leaned up against the wall that he fit comfortably underneath. It was a place where he could be alone, where he could feel safe. That afternoon he was not so lucky.

A shadow fell over the sliver of light at Garrett’s feet, drawing his attention away from the deep well of his thoughts. A voice followed, jeering. “Hey hungry baby, want some food?”

As if in response, Garrett’s stomach gave a loud growl. He looked up at the boy addressing him. He was tall for his age, older than Garrett. He was flanked by two other boys with the same wicked grins plastered on their dirt smudged faces.

Garrett recalled the black silhouette that had hovered over his bed so briefly before dragging him away from all that he knew and loved. Panic rose in his throat like bile but his body refused to move, his heart thundering in his ears. He glanced about, seeking a way to escape. There was none.

“I think he is still hungry, Chaz” one of the other boys urged.

“I think you are right, Devin. Do you have a snack for him?”

It was all staged. The words were a script and the ambush was perfectly planned. Garrett saw Devin pull a hand out from behind his back, a thick black mess dripping from his palm. “What flavor, Devin?” Chaz questioned, voice too loud. Garrett could not see beyond the three boys, trapped as he was in his nook beside the wall, but he knew that other children were watching the scene. He wanted to shrink back into the shadow, to never be seen again. His shelter did not provide such sanctuary.

“Chocolate,” Devin announced with much flair.

Chaz leaned down closer to Garrett’s hiding place, blocking whatever space he could have used to escape. “Well, hungry baby? You want some chocolate?” Garrett shook his head, throat too dry to make a sound. “No? Sure you do. Just try some.”

“No-!” Garrett’s protest was silenced as a handful of black mud was shoved into his face, the grit scratching his cheeks and dirt filling his mouth. As he gagged, choked and spat there was an uproar of laughter and jeers. It was deafening.

Garrett scrambled backwards as far as he could under the board, wiping the mud from his cheeks and chin. The boys were yelling again, the words lost to Garrett. The blood rushing through his ears was all he could discern. Sudden brightness filled his vision and he looked up to find the board making his shelter being torn away. He was exposed, curled in the corner, too petrified to move. That was when he looked up and saw the silhouette hovering above him, Chaz’s meaty hand closing around his arm. Then it was the helmeted man, his gloved hands dragging him from his bed. There was a chilling shriek in his ear, a loud thundering bang-

The next he knew, Garrett was lashing out at his attacker, fists clenched and flying and legs kicking with all his strength. He felt his foot connect with something solid and a wail echoed in the lot. There were screams and cheers from the surrounding children, but all Garrett could hear was his own rapid breathing. He tried to scramble to his feet but he was tackled to the ground. The crushing weight on him stilled whatever escape he could have mustered. The scuffle continued, the four boys wrestling and throwing punches at whatever he could.

All that stopped them was a guttural roar that carried over the whole lot, silencing the crowd instantly. The words that followed were no less menacing. “What’s all this?”

The weight was removed from Garrett’s body and he struggled to raise himself from the dusty ground. He was spared the effort as he was hoisted to his feet by a furious The Stick. All four boys got a heavy rap on the shoulder from the man in quick succession.

“Everyone back to the dormitories, now!” The Stick bellowed. Stooped as he was, the man was incredibly intimidating. Garrett made to follow, keeping his head low but was thwarted as the man clasped a huge hand over his shoulder. “Not you,” he growled. “Come with me.”

Garrett complied with the man’s order without complaint, feeling numb. It had seemed he became a wild beast in the yard but now he felt nothing. Not sadness, not pain, not anger, just… nothing. His chest was a cold void. It almost felt as though he were not even in his body, that he was almost the puppeteer pulling strings to make his knees bend. He was still in that numb daze when they arrived at what appeared to be The Stick’s office. A desk piled high with papers stood in one corner and the rest of the room looked to be a storage closet, so packed with boxes as it was.

“Go sit, boy.” Garrett felt himself comply to the gruff order and sat on the wobbly chair at the desk. He looked on as The Stick pulled the top off of one of the wooden boxes and pulled out what looked like two rolled rags from within. He turned and scrutinized Garrett for a moment. “You’re a taffing mess, boy. Torn clothes, mud all over…” He shook his head in dismay and tossed the rags at Garrett, who barely caught them. “New clothes,” The Stick said in explanation. “’Bout time you got out of your pajamas.”

By new clothes, he meant a shirt that reached almost to Garrett’s knees and rough spun cloth pants that were in tatters. At least they were not covered in mud. When he was fully dressed, he took up his tattered pajamas, felt the soft fabric in his hands. He could almost feel his mama’s gentle touch pulling the shirt down over his head, tucking the blanket about him as he settled into bed. Every brush of her fingers had been like a gentle loving kiss. A lump rose in the back of his throat. He could barely remember the last time she had tucked him into bed, yet he still felt her touch as he held his pajamas.

The tattered clothes in his hands were grasped and it was like some furnace was lit deep within Garrett. He put up a wild protest, his efforts only further tearing the muddy mess that was left of the pajamas he had arrived in. They were the last thing he had to remind him of home and they were ripped mercilessly from his grasp. All he got for his effort was another swift rap on the shoulder with The Stick’s cane. Garrett was sent from the office with an order to return to the dormitory and to “not make a ruckus, you taffing fool.”

His last piece of home had been taken; the last reminder of his mama’s loving touch ripped from memory.

\---

Garrett kept his head down as he entered the boy’s dormitory, slipping past a few boys and finally coming to his bunk. He was startled to find it occupied. The blond haired boy he met during his first breakfast sat upon the mattress. Garrett might have been affronted by the audacity, but all he could feel was an aching numbness in his chest. He stared down at the boy, waiting for him to speak.

After a tense moment, he did. “The name’s Matt.”

It took a moment to respond. “Garrett.” Even he could tell that his voice sounded dead and dull as stone.

There was a hint of a smile that flashed across Matt’s youthful cheeks. “You still have mud on your face.”

Garrett felt himself shut a door to the older boy, suddenly unable to look upon him. The words he spoke crushed him to voice, tightening in his chest before he let them out. “Did you laugh at me too?”

“No.” The immediacy and sincerity of the word caught Garrett off guard. Matt continued. “I was the one who opened the door so the Stick could hear the fight.”

“Why is he called the Stick?”

“The Stick, ‘cause his cane. Anyway, you need to hold your ground when Chaz and his gang come ‘round. Another fight like today will have you marked as the weak one and you’ll never get out of here alive.” The way he spoke was so frank, so painfully truthful that Garrett was inclined to believe him.

“I don’t want to die,” Garrett said softly, shaking off the dark shadow that passed through his mind, as fleeting and wild as the frantic flutter of a caged raven.

“I hear you there. Lay low and hold your ground, that’s my advice.” Matt waved vaguely behind him to the back of the room. “The wash basin is back there. For your face,” he clarified.

As Garrett washed the dried mud from his cheeks, he came to realize that he may have made a friend. He had not had many of those; he had mostly played by himself and occasionally with the girl who lived next door. He was used to being left alone, his papa gone to work most days and his mama always busy around the house. To be surrounded by other children constantly… it was stifling. But one friend - if he indeed could call Matt a friend already - one friend he could handle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's gotta have at least something good in his life, right...?


	3. Chapter 3

That night brought the first nightmare. The visions that danced through his dreams were a confusing blur; wild and shrieking shadows tearing through his mind left him petrified and chilled to the bone. Even in the nightmare Garrett could not tell if he were asleep or awake. He was surrounded by roiling blackness; a constant inhuman shriek the only thing he could hear ravaged his mind. It filled him, became him. A hand grabbed his arm and he struggled away from it, fighting with all his might. He was alone, he was weak, and all he could hear was the scream.

A sharp sting across his cheek was what brought him from the nightmare. The shriek faded into the night, Garrett unsure if he had just imagined it or if it had come from his own throat. The meaty hand was still circling his arm, the grip punishing. Garrett struggled against it, only earning another slap across his cheek for his efforts.

It was only then that he heard the Stick’s harsh voice and could discern the words. “You taffing boy, quiet! Keep this up and it’ll be the closet for you!”

Garrett made the mistake of looking up at the furious man, his round head turning into a helmeted man, the meaty grip on his arm a leather glove. A wave of icy horror passed over Garrett and he lashed out in any way he could. He was getting taken away again. His parents were going to die again and this time he would die with them.

“Enough! You’re coming with me.” Garrett was bodily hoisted, arms secure but legs still kicking wildly. The cries wrenched from his throat did not even seem to be coming from him at all. They were the echoes of the shriek from his dream, the screams of the roiling shadows. He was going to see those limp figures piled on the floor, was going to step in that sticky substance, was going to get dragged off to a new and more terrifying place, he was-

He was tossed in a heap on the cold wood floor. The Stick growled down at him. “You’ll stay here tonight. Keep quiet.” With that, he closed a door and Garrett was left in utter darkness. It only took him a moment to gather himself up from the floor and find the door handle. He jostled it, but it would not budge. Panic gripped his chest, stilling any vocal protest he could muster. There was constriction in his chest, the stifling air clenching at his throat as he struggled to pull a breath. Garrett stepped back two paces and his back hit a wall. Struggling to get his bearings, he felt his way along the walls. It certainly was small enough to be a closet as the Stick had called it; if Garrett held his arms out he could barely touch either side of the tiny room. It was also empty save for him. That was an oddly comforting notion.

The dark pressed down on him but instead of being oppressing as it was before, he drew comfort from its confinement. The wall he huddled against was a shelter, his arms about him warmth. He knew what was in the darkness. He was alone and in that he was safe.

Then he closed his eyes.

All at once the sense of safety was gone. He was lost in his mind. Reality, dream and memory blended together in a dizzying maelstrom. It tore at him, ripping the breath from his lungs. Garrett woke gasping for air, limbs still fighting off invisible foes. Collecting himself, he swept an arm before him, feeling nothing but the close walls of the closet. He was still alone. The dark he looked upon no longer held threat and was once again a comfort. He wiped the tears off of his cheeks, the rough material of his new shirt scratching. Garrett clutched his knees to his chest, pressing his back to the wall. He took solace in the cold it radiated, the support it offered.

Sleep brought nightmares.

So he stayed awake.

\---

“Garrett… _Garrett_.” His shoulder was shaken. A jolt ran through him and he was awake, instinctively slapping the hand on his shoulder away. “Okay, okay! No touching, I get it.” The voice was familiar. Garrett keenly scanned his surroundings. He was in the mess hall. It was light. Matt sat beside him looking a bit put off. Garrett took a steadying breath and stared at the plate before him. It was yet another dry sandwich on stale bread. He stared at it, saw his gaze waver. There was another nudge and Garrett jolted up again.

Staying awake at night had seemed a good idea when he started the previous week. The nightmares only came at night when he slept. It had worked for the most part, save the few times he had accidentally drifted off. Those were the times when he woke screaming and was dragged to the closet. It was becoming more of a comfort to be in that dark confined space than a punishment. The lack of sleep was wearing on him, though. He lacked energy, he lacked appetite. More than once he had wanted to lash out at his friend and barely restrained himself.

“I’ve seen kids have trouble sleeping here at first,” Matt reassured Garrett, apparently noticing the signs of his fatigue. Apparently falling asleep in the middle of lunch was a dead giveaway. The older boy’s words barely registered to Garrett’s ears, sounding as if they came from the other side of the mess hall. “You’ll get used to it.”

He was being nice. By the looks he got from the boys in his dormitory, he knew that screaming in one’s sleep was not usual. At least they left him alone. Even Chaz and his gang kept their distance. Garrett had even overheard a group of girls talking about how he might be possessed or cursed. Matt was the only one who sat by him during meals or spoke to him during the hour they were allowed in the yard. Whenever they were separated during work time, Garrett found himself missing the older boy’s presence. When he finished mending a tear in a pair of pants, he would turn to show Matt forgetting he was not there. Luckily, on the days that they cleaned the floors they were set to work together. It was a grueling job, scrubbing on his hands and knees until his back ached, but with Matt at his side Garrett did not mind it much.

It was the pervasive exhaustion that hung about his shoulders that was the real problem. It had been almost a week since he had begun avoiding sleep and there was no escape from the consequences plaguing him. In the grueling class they were forced to attend once a week, Garrett had been caught dozing and had been pulled by his ear to sit outside for a second time. When he was set to the task of mending, his hands shook so much that he pierced his fingers more often than the cloth he was working with. A few times he forewent his hour in the yard to nap in the dormitory. Sleep came much easier when he was not surrounded by darkness, the light on his face a reassurance that no helmeted man stood over him to take him away.

Even with the hour nap, he still carried himself in a daze. At least he did not have the energy to think upon the loss of his parents. It was hard enough to concentrate on the task at hand, let alone withstanding the crushing void in his chest when he tried to remember their faces.

It was another week until he collapsed on his way to the mess hall for lunch. The nightmares did not advance upon him but neither was it a restful unconsciousness. He woke on a bed in a room he had not been in before. Garrett scanned his surroundings, gaze intent but swimming dizzily. It was smaller than the dormitory with fewer beds lining the walls. He sat up with some effort. The motion appeared to catch the attention of a woman sitting in a chair by the closed door. It was Cook, her distinctive rotund shape the only thing Garrett could discern through his haze.

Only when she approached did he see the apathetic stare she gave Garrett. It was all too familiar. Garrett watched her carefully as she stood at the foot of the bed he sat upon. “So what’s wrong with you?” When she got no response to her begrudging question, she swept forward and placed a hand on Garrett’s forehead. He flinched but was too tired to protest further. “No fever,” Cook mused. She took a hold of his chin and pulled his mouth open. “Tongue out.” The prodding inspection went on with Garrett complying in a fog.

Apparently not satisfied with the results, the woman sighed and went to a shelf containing a number of colored bottles. She returned with a clear bottle containing a red-brown liquid. “When in doubt, Laudanum is the way to go,” she muttered to herself. She uncorked the bottle and produced a spoon before scrutinizing him for a moment. “You’re so small…” She tipped a small amount of the liquid into the spoon. “That shouldn’t be too much. Open up.”

As soon as Garrett’s lips parted, Cook shoved the spoon in his mouth. He choked and gagged at the bitter concoction, the potency of it cutting through the sweetness of the sherry that supposedly made it palatable. It did not. With a swift order for Garrett to stay in bed, the woman replaced the bottle on the shelf and left the room. The taste of the Laudanum still heavy in his mouth, Garrett glanced to his side to see a glass of water on a table by his bedside. It was a relief to wash away the taste, but it still stuck at the back of his throat.

That was when the first spell of dizziness struck him. The whole room seemed to turn on its end, Garrett clutching the sheets beneath him so he would not fall to the ceiling. He collapsed back onto the mattress, closing his eyes to the swirling madness. The world tilted and shifted beneath him and all he could do was hold on and wait for the ground to settle.

When he came to, the sun filtering through the far window was a golden orange. His shirt was damp with cold sweat and his stomach was in knots. Drowsiness pulled at the back of his eyes and he blinked at the sting of it. He glanced about the room, half expecting it to be in shambles from the way it had been moving but finding it to be unchanged.

Had he been asleep? He did not want to sleep. He glanced further about, his motions sluggish. There was a bowl on the table beside him; Garrett had no doubt it contained terribly bland porridge. Just the thought of food made his stomach knot further. Instead, he took to staring at the low ceiling, imagining the shapes the rough stucco made were marvelous creatures. He watched as they came to life in the warm sunset light.

He had not known that he had fallen asleep again until the night terrors came upon him. This time it was the creatures he had seen moving on the ceiling digging their claws into two lifeless figures lying in his house. The helmeted guard dragging him was the same, however. He was always the same.

His shoulders were restrained. It was the jolt of fear that woke him as he struggled against the grip. He became aware of yelling. There were three voices, one of them his own. Something was shoved between his lips and he choked on the bittersweet liquid. He looked wildly about him, hardly recognizing Cook and the Stick in the flickering candlelight. It was not long before the room began to move again, Garrett becoming lost in the motion. The room was too big, not enough shadow to hide in. He wished he were in his closet with those tight, safe walls all about him. He did not want to be found. As it was, all Garrett could do was hold onto the mattress beneath him and hope he would survive the world spinning out of control.

Sleep came upon him swift and unrelenting, the Laudanum suppressing whatever nightmares would have plagued him otherwise. 

The next morning Garrett woke for the first time in two weeks feeling rested. It took him a while to fully recall just where he was, separating the visions from the evening before from his current reality. It was exhausting making sense of it all. He sat up, his head feeling heavy and stuffed with cloth. His skin was sticky with sweat, his stomach still in knots. There was a commotion outside the door. The other children. That meant it was breakfast. Garrett swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, far too unsteady for his liking. His strides grew stronger as he walked to the door. Soon he melted in with the rest of the children walking towards the mess hall. His thoughts were a muddled confusion but he kept walking. He did not notice the wary glances he got from some of the other children; his mind was blissfully blank.

When he reached out to Cook to receive his porridge, she stopped and stared at him for a moment, her mouth a thin line of disapproval. Without a word, she gave him a bowl of porridge and went on as if he were just another kid. He was. He was just one of the rabble.

Garrett found himself sitting at a bench staring at the gray porridge before him. He had little desire to eat. His gaze flicked in and out of focus, his whole body numb.

“Garrett!” The familiar voice came from beside him. Movements sluggish, it felt an eternity passed before he was able to move his head to look at his friend. “Where’ve you been?”

Worry. Matt was worried about him. Garrett shrugged, shoulders heavy. He had guessed the infirmary, but in his muddled state he really was not sure. The world had shifted beneath him; nothing made sense anymore. He wanted to go into that deep sleep again and never wake up.

Matt was talking at him but the words did not register. Garrett took up his spoon and stirred the gray sludge, took a bite, and shoved the bowl away. His stomach could not take much more than that one bite. Time passed though Garrett had no way of knowing how long. He was eventually pulled up from the table and led out of the room. It was a while before he registered that it had been Matt who helped him. The children were separated into their work groups for the day. Garrett sat himself beside a pile of mending, not quite sure how he got there. He had to concentrate in order to pick up the needle and threading it was nearly impossible. Eventually he made his first stitch, habit taking over his dazed mind. As the hours passed, his head cleared and by the time lunch came around he finally felt lucid.

The cook stared down at him with a sharp eye and instead of giving him the lunch she was serving, handed him a familiar bowl of gray sludge. So what Matt had warned on his first morning was actually true. Garrett took the bowl without protest. He sat and stared at the contents. The porridge had congealed into a solid, cold mass. The scoop he took from it was more of a progress of excavation. At least his stomach did not protest as he ate, though he had to force himself to finish the bowl.

That night the nightmares took him again. He had accidentally drifted off and woke up to his own screams. It was not long before the Stick bore down upon him.

“Taffing kid,” the man growled, holding Garrett down as he struggled against the monsters of his dreams. “Don’t make me sedate you.”

It was a threat. Garrett struggled harder.

He was restrained and dragged from the dormitory. For the briefest moment he thought he would be taken to the closet. Just the thought shot a small amount of relief through his terror. They turned right down the hallway. The closet was to the left. Garrett’s struggling redoubled and he almost slipped from the Stick’s grip. It was all in vain.

They came to the infirmary and Garrett was unceremoniously tossed at one of the cots. He caught himself against it, every sense screaming to run, to get away from the man, to escape, to go home, to find his parents-

“You stay there, boy,” the Stick thundered, raising his cane with a threat. “We could just leave you on the street to rot. There are plenty of kids who would gladly take your place. Fact is, you’ll never amount to anything. You’ll just be a poor sop in a city of poor sops. So you can either sit there quiet like or so help me I’ll toss you out myself.”

Garrett was petrified. Those words cut through him and left him raw and numb. His knees gave out from beneath him and he sat on the bed, awaiting whatever it was that The Stick was digging out of the medicine shelf. It was the clear bottle with red-brown liquid inside. Its bittersweet taste was all too familiar but Garrett obediently swallowed, blinking away the tears that sprung to his eyes. He would not show the man he was vulnerable.

The dizziness struck him as The Stick led him back to the dormitory. He saw the hallway spin before him and felt himself go with it. He was supported from his fall, though he felt as though he were floating. He was moving again, feet connecting to nothing but air. Was he flying? The next he knew, he was on his bed and there was a loud bang from the door. The curtains were tossed aside by a disgruntled Stick and sunlight burned the back of his eyes.

He followed the other children out the door and to the mess hall, feet dragging. More than once he tripped over nothing and barely caught himself before he fell onto one of the other children. His mind was a fog, his body feeling almost too heavy to move.

The day passed the same as the previous. Garrett was unable to eat breakfast and instead ate it for lunch. That evening at dinner, as he received his usual bowl of stew he was also handed a glass of water with a swift instruction to drink all of it. Not wanting to know the consequences if he disobeyed Cook, he did as he was told. It was no doubt laced with that bittersweet medicine he had come to know so well, but Garrett had come to appreciate the quiet sleep it brought on. The grogginess, dizzy spells and stomach cramps he could handle, but the roiling shadows and whatever other nightmares came in his dreams he could not. It was easier to sleep, easier to forget the horrors, easier to suppress that haunting grief that lurked just at the edge of his vision.

Garrett drank the Laudanum and succumbed to blissful sleep as soon as he made it back to the dormitory.


	4. Chapter 4

Garrett lost track of the days, his mind a blur of confusion and listless goings on. It was Matt who finally got through to him one evening as they stood in line to receive their dinner.

“They’re drugging you,” he whispered to Garrett. “You can’t let them have that control over you.”

“It helps me sleep.” His voice sounded dead even to his own ears. It was the first time he had spoken in… how many days?

“It’s poisoning you,” Matt insisted. “Don’t you care?”

Garrett only shrugged. He approached Cook and took his bowl of stew and his glass laced with medicine. He sat at one of the two long tables, unaware of Matt joining him until the older boy spoke.

“Don’t drink it,” he insisted.

Garrett spooned some stew into his mouth, hardly tasting the already tasteless broth. He honestly did not have the energy to argue with his friend over the matter. In fact, he hardly had the energy for much at all anymore. Everything was numb. Even the world had stopped spinning after he had his doses of Laudanum. Something moved in the blurred corner of his vision and when he looked to see what it was, he found his glass empty.

Accusing, he stared at Matt feeling more than slightly betrayed. Matt stared back, equally fierce. “Now you won’t get in trouble for not drinking it.” Garrett did not break his stare. “What? I didn’t drink it,” Matt declared with a huff. “Though if we clean these floors tomorrow I might have made our life worse.”

The gravity of the act fell slowly upon Garrett’s shoulders, his thoughts sluggish. “I won’t be able to sleep. The Stick will put me in the closet again.” Though that did not seem all that bad of a thing.

“You just have to be quiet.” That was all sound advice, save for the fact that Garrett had tried that. He had tried it many times and had failed each and every one, hence the need for his current drugged state. He could not control his own mind, his own actions. It was useless. He could not do it by himself. “Look,” Matt leaned closer and lowered his voice, “they aren’t going to drug you forever. Once they think you can’t be helped they’ll toss you out on the street. You know what happens to kids on the street?” Garrett shook his head, even that slight motion making his vision swim. “They die. That’s what’ll happen to you if you keep this up.”

“Like mama and papa?” There was a crushing pain in his chest and he gasped, wishing then more than ever to be numb. They were gone. He had left them in his house, covered in that sheet. He should have done something, should have woken up to help them, should have-

“Yes, like them.” Matt’s voice cut through the pain, launching Garrett back into reality. He felt a warm brush on his cheek and found it to be a tear. He quickly wiped it away. He had to be strong, to not be vulnerable. If Chaz and his gang saw him…

“I’ll try to be quiet.”

It was a promise that he was not sure he could keep.

Luckily it seemed as though staying awake would not be a problem. That was the only luck Garrett had. As the evening progressed, a pallor appeared to fall over him. It started with congestion, filling his head. Next came a cold sweat, soaking his shirt through almost immediately. The shivers that took him over were not just from the cold and no matter how tightly he pulled the blanket about his shoulders they would not abate. His stomach twisted into knots, but he was by far used to that sensation. It was agony, every muscle cramping until all he knew was cold and ache. Sleep did not even give him a reprieve from the misery. Even his nightmares seemed a good alternative to this.

By the time the Stick banged the door open and threw the curtains aside, Garrett had relinquished himself to a life of misery. It would not stop. The cold would not warm, his head would not clear, and the pain would not go away. When he tried to stand, his legs gave out from under him and he was on the floor. He did not even feel the fall.

There was a cry of dismay coming from somewhere far off. A man’s voice. The Stick. “Taffing boy, what’s wrong now?” Garrett was unable to answer. He felt himself be lifted off the floor. His eyes could not focus and he was struck by a fresh wave of chills. “Now you’re sick on top of it? You’re useless. Come with me.”

Still with the rough blanket draped over his shoulders, the scruff of his shirt was taken hold of and he found himself compelled to walk forward. The world was a nauseating calamity of sound, Garrett’s heart beating to burst in his chest while his ribs almost felt as though they would collapse. When they came to a standstill, Garrett finally was able to focus his gaze… upon Matron’s office door. His heart lurched painfully. The last time he had gone there, he had been told that his parents were dead. What terrible news awaited him this time?

Garrett did not stay to find out.

With the last of his strength, he wrenched his shirt out of the Stick’s grip and took off at a run. He did not know where he was going; all he knew is that if he went into Matron’s office there would be no going back. He would get tossed out on the street, like Matt had told him. He would die, like his parents had.

He was not going to die.

He was going to live.

Before he knew it, Garrett was standing before the door he had so often been dragged to in the late night. It was the place he had been kept when he had woken from his nightmares. The place that was so tight and dark that no other fearful shadows could find him in it. There was a yell down the hall and Garrett slipped into the closet.

The dark enveloped him like an old friend and for a moment he forgot the illness that still stuck to his skin and rolled in his gut. He collapsed in the corner, drawing the scratchy blanket he still had draped over his shoulders closer about himself. He was alone. He was safe.

Then there was a thundering roar just outside the door. It took Garrett a moment to discern the words.

“Useless taffer, you’ll just die in there! Fine, you want to be in there? Go ahead and die in there.” A loud bang issued from the door but no blinding light entered Garrett’s quiet realm. “We’ll just toss you in the river like the useless scrap of meat that you are. Don’t think someone will save you. No one is here for you and no one will ever be. All you kids are just useless scum.”

With that, Garrett was left in silence. He could not even hear the other children walking down the hall to breakfast. Everything was a thick stillness, every beat of his heart seeming to reverberate within the confining walls of his sanctuary. The small, dark space seemed to amplify everything about him. Every shiver was a convulsion, every wrench of his gut was a fist beating him.

Garrett lost track of time. Everything was misery and there was no reprieve. The only comforts he had were the blanket pulled about him and the darkness pressing into him. He slept little and when he did the nightmares returned. They were different now. He could discern no solid forms, only fear rolling through him. He did not wake screaming, but shivering. At least that was an improvement. It was the only improvement.

While he was awake, there were thoughts that protruded through him, became salient around him. So persistent they were that he began to believe them. He would spend the rest of his life in this closet. He was useless, just as the Stick had said. His cowardice had killed his parents. He should have been downstairs with them; maybe then he could have saved them. He was going to die just like them, only he would be alone. Why did he have to be alone and they had died together? It was not fair. Nothing was fair. He was dying alone and life was not fair.

Anger turned to sorrow and sorrow turned to numbness. Eventually the chills passed, the ache in his muscles was soothed, the knot in his stomach turned to thirst and hunger. It seemed as though he never before had felt such peace.

Maybe he truly was dying.

\---

“What do you mean he went in there by himself?”

“He ran away from me and went in there.”

“He ran away from you? Why would he do that?”

“The boy was ill and I was taking him to get medicine.”

“And when was this?”

“Three days ago.”

“And you told me this now? Well, might as well see if he’s still alive.”

Light. It was a beautiful, agonizing sight.

The hand jostling his shoulder was a white hot point and Garrett gasped at the sensation. Was it his mama? He had heard her voice so often, speaking into his ear words of comfort and love. His papa had been there too, telling him stories to help him sleep. His eyes barely focused and immediately the hallucinations he had experienced shattered around him.

“Well, he’s still alive.” Matron’s voice was apathetic. “What’s this one’s name? Gary or… oh doesn’t matter. Boy, get up if you can.”

Garrett pulled his feet under him, pressing his shoulder to the wall to aid his balance as he pulled himself off of the floor. His head swam, his hands shook, but he was alive.

He was alive.

Tears sprung to his eyes. Not from the blinding light, not from pain or sadness. They were tears wrought from pure joy. Joy at seeing another person, joy at being touched, joy at the thankfulness of not being in profound omnipresent misery. He shook with the joy of it, the laugh that escaped his throat more a sob. His parents were long gone, the memory of their voices still so near… no, that had been a dream, a hallucination. They were gone but he was still alive. He was so alive.

“See, he’s just fine.” That was the Stick, standing just beyond Matron who crouched beside Garrett.

“Consider yourself lucky for that, Maurice.” Matron’s voice was sharp. “Every boy we sell to a tradesman gets us gold for your pay. We lose one and you don’t get paid. You hear?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Garrett had never heard a man sound so meek.

“Good. Get this boy some food and drink. Don’t let Cook give him more Laudanum. Stuff’s not good for making strong working children. Not cheap either.”

With that, she was gone and Garrett was left under the Stick’s care. He was not sure how he got to the mess hall, only that the stooped man must have aided him. It was empty when they entered. Garrett was ordered to sit at one of the long tables and he did not protest. His legs would not have held him much longer. As he sat, he felt something slip off his shoulders. It was the blanket that had been such a comfort over those… had it really been three days? It was then that Garrett realized that he was no longer chilled to the bone and actually pleasantly warm.

There was a commotion coming from the opposite side of the mess hall, from the kitchens Garrett presumed. He heard the Stick yelling and he did not care that it was angry. It was such a relief to hear another person’s voice. A real voice, not one derived from memory and shadow.

“How long had you been giving him Laudanum?” That was the roar that emerged from the stooped man’s throat.

The reply from Cook was strong, but not nearly as hostile. “It allowed you to sleep through the night without the boy waking up the whole place, didn’t it?”

“Three days ago he looked sick as a dog. I’ve only ever seen that when someone is coming off of a lengthy time on Laudanum. So how long?”

The words, the cadence, the life of the conversation pulled a thin smile to Garrett’s lips. The feeling startled him but he allowed it to persist. It might have been delirium from lack of food and water, but Garrett languished in the bliss. He would have laughed had he thought it would be safe to.

“Two weeks,” was the reply Cook gave, not so readily.

There was an extended silence, a deep sigh, and the Stick spoke again. The anger had dissipated. “Just give me something for him to eat. And some water _without_ Laudanum this time.”

The next he knew, Garrett had a bowl of gray porridge before him and a glass of clear water, lacking the subtle red-brown tint he had grown accustomed to. Never before had anything tasted as delicious as that gray sludge. Never before had anything quenched his throat like that clear water. Garrett savored every bite, rolling the tasteless and cold sludge about his mouth and treasuring every sensation. Before he knew it, the bowl and glass were empty and there was a satisfying bulge in his stomach.

The bowl was taken up and the Stick talked down to him. “Rest in the dormitory until it’s time to go out to the yard.”

Garrett gladly complied, his legs seeming to carry him easier as he made his way to the dormitory. He fell onto his cot, the cushion feeling like the softest cloud and his faithful blanket the most welcoming embrace. He slept, the early afternoon sun warming his face and keeping the shadows of his dreams at bay.

It was the commotion of children that brought him from his sleep. Real children, not the wild beasts in the shape of children he had dreamed about over the days in the closet. Those beast children had hurt him, mocked him, ostracized him. He could still feel the phantom aches that their hallucinated fists had left him with.

Garrett stood, reluctantly laying his beloved blanket out on his cot. It took him a long moment to think of just why he was getting up. Then he recalled. It was time to go to the yard. The Stick had said so. His feet carried him down the hallway towards the door leading to the yard. He almost felt as though he were floating. The sun was blinding and it took a long moment for his eyes to adjust to the brightness.

As soon as they did, a shadow fell over him. Whatever mist that had covered his senses after his blissful nap dissipated in a second. He was sharp, eyes seeing everything, ears missing no noise. His very skin seemed to tingle with the sensation of the wind, each hair on his body rising. That shadow was a dangerous one. It was the shadow of someone leaning over him, holding malice in its depths.

“Well, and here we all thought you had died, hungry baby.”

Chaz. Wary, Garrett rocked back on the balls of his feet, muscles tense and ready. For what, he did not entirely know.

“You been hiding? You try to escape? What?”

Garrett could smell his foul breath, could almost taste the greasiness of his hair as he leaned closer. The large boy hunched his shoulders, a proud display to make him seem even bigger than he already was. It was all show. Garrett saw right through him, though the thunder of his heart in his chest since that shadow passed over him had not calmed.

“I was sick,” Garrett replied evenly, softly. He dared not glance away from Chaz’s face. He had to show no fear. Show no weakness.

“You were sick? Aw, boo hoo!” Chaz made a big display of his pretend weeping. Garrett was very aware of the surrounding children turning to stare at the interaction. He had to make his mark here and now or forever be in the shadow of this monster. No one was going to save him. He was not worth saving, so he had to save himself.

“I was poisoned,” Garrett spoke loudly, clearly. He wanted those listening to hear. He wanted the children to know. “I went into the closet for three days and I’m still alive.” Those last three words he drew out, never relenting his hard stare at the bully before him. He waited and then it happened, the tiniest change that made all the difference. Chaz looked away first.

The large boy bolstered himself again, though his motions no longer held the strength they had before. “You think you’re tough?”

Garrett had had enough. He had spoken his piece. Without another word, he slipped out from underneath the bully’s shadow. The children looking on moved to let him slip by. He reached the back corner of the yard without resistance. The board he had once hidden under was long gone, but the shaded corner still remained. There he stood, every child purposefully not looking in his direction. That was, until a boy with a straggly mop of blond hair approached him.

Matt simply stared at him with wide eyes. It took him a long moment to find words. “Where were you? Were you really in the closet?”

As steadfast as Garrett had been when facing Chaz, he allowed himself to slump as exhaustion was quickly catching up to him. Matt was the only one he could display that weakness to. “I was.”

The older boy continued to stare at him with wide eyes. “They put you in the closet for three days?”

Garrett shook his head. “I stayed there.” It was his choice. He had not even checked the door handle to see if it was locked.

Still quite bewildered, Matt continued questioning him. “Whatever for?”

“I was sick. The Stick was going to put me on the street.” He was convinced of that fact, no matter what the stooped man had told Matron.

“So you stayed in the closet for three days? I’m impressed you lasted that long.” Indeed, he did sound impressed. The genuine emotion was so raw that Garrett was taken back. He had been numb for so long, even recognizing emotions seemed foreign. It had only been three days in seclusion in that closet, and before then two weeks of being in that drugged state. Still, to his young and malleable mind it had seemed months had passed since his first dose of Laudanum.

Garrett replied in the only way he could: with the facts. “I didn’t drink the medicine. The Stick said I was sick because of that.”

He looked on as Matt winced. “Oh.” Was that… guilt?

Garrett continued, a distinct numbness residing where the bliss he felt before had resided. “I won’t get it anymore. The Stick said so.”

Matt grinned upon hearing that piece of information. He put his fists on his hips as if he were the hero. “See? It’ll all work out and now you aren’t getting poisoned. You need to lay low for a while, don’t make a fuss.”

Garrett agreed. However, he did not agree that it would all work out. Nothing was that simple anymore. Whatever hope he had kept had been lost somewhere in that closet, deep in those welcoming shadows. They were thick, they were safe, but they also leeched out any warmth from whatever they concealed.

Garrett stuck to the facts; they were the only things that made sense anymore. No one had come to save him. Matt had not saved him and neither had his parents. He had rescued himself. He needed only himself. It was all he trusted. Himself and the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey dear readers! I'm going to try to increase my updates to twice a week while I can, just because I have the time and I have too large of a chapter buffer.


	5. Chapter 5

Metal flashed before his eyes, retreating behind him. He was entirely aware of the person standing behind him and even more aware of the position he was in. Garrett was vulnerable and that was not okay. Nothing was quite okay anymore, not since he had arrived. That had been a long time ago. He was a different person.

The metal appeared just inside his peripheral vision, tarnished but still with a wicked edge. It drew closer to his ear. Before he knew it, his hand had shot up and gripped the thing. He tugged at the iron grip but was too weak to disarm the man behind him.

“Let go, you taffing fool. I’ve got ten more boys to get to today and I don’t want to have to do this tomorrow as well.”

Not releasing his grip, Garrett addressed the Stick. “I can do it myself.”

“No you can’t.” With that, Garrett’s hold on the instrument was wrenched free, his head secured by a meaty hand. A squeal of hinges and a rasp of metal on metal sounded in his ears as the hair that had been brushing his forehead was mercilessly shorn.

It was yet another struggle that he lost. One of many struggles that he had put up only to be easily thwarted over the past year. Garrett figured it had been a year since his arrival, though his only reference for time was the coming and going of winter and the onset of the muggy summer. The Matron and the Stick did not announce the passing of time, let alone allow the children under their care to celebrate the passing holidays. It was just another way to keep them under control, to deprive them of anything that broke up the monotony of daily life. They were machines, just replaceable parts of the whole system. They provided the children a home that was little more than a prison, barely enough food and grueling work and they had the gall to call it charity.

Garrett saw the orphanage for what it truly was: a slaughterhouse. He and the other children were just suckling pigs that their caretakers fed and kept supple in order to feed them to the rich as laborers. It sickened him how he and the other children were used as disposable commodities. Yet deep down, Garrett knew that they were. They were useless children, nothing to their names and no one to look after them. The only condolence Garret had was the fact that he was too young for work and he was glad for it. Despite the Stick and Matron’s attempts to keep the children away from hearing news, too many horrifying stories of children getting bought into professions leaked back to the gossip among the orphans.

There were some in the orphanage who were oblivious to these stories of death and woe. They were the ones content with what they had. Garrett was no such child. With every move he took, he fought against those who were his caretakers to maintain any sense of self he was left with. When he looked upon them, he saw only malice. He struggled every day to survive, to stay in the shadows and to remain out of the scrutinizing eye of Matron and the Stick. Lay low and slip by was his motto and it had helped him survive thus far.

The scissors snipping his hair was a defeat. He had escaped it the past two times the Stick had gone through the boy’s dormitory to shear off their hair. This time he was not so lucky. Garrett hated the feel of his hair brushing his cheeks or tickling the back of his neck, but he hated being held down at the mercy of his caretaker even more. As soon as the last ragged strand was snipped and the scissors removed, Garrett slipped out of the chair and was in the hallway before the Stick could utter a protest. He made it to the mess hall just in time to grab his lunch as Cook was clearing up.

Matt was just finishing his meal when Garrett sat next to him.

“They got you this time, huh?” That was all the greeting Garrett got from his friend and Matt only received a nod in reply. The older boy knew not to press him. They both knew it was a blow, yet another defeat.

Later that day, the two boys were hard at work scrubbing the floors of the kitchen. Thankfully Cook was out collecting the monthly shipment of food supplies and they were spared from her oppressing shadow looming over them as they worked.

It was only in that silent, secluded place where Garrett felt safe enough to speak openly. All other times there were unfriendly ears listening and mouths that spoke all they heard to try to earn favor with the Stick or Matron. It was a fruitless endeavor but the empty promise of sanctuary still kept some of the children loyal to the caregivers.

Even in the secluded kitchen with the droning noise of their scrub brushes blocking their conversation from being overheard, Garrett kept his voice low. Anyone listening could compromise his plan. “We need get out of here.”

Matt sighed, tossing his head back for added flair. “You going on about that again? Do you have an actual plan this time? I don’t want to spend another two days in the closet while you get off scant free.”

Garrett would not let Matt’s pessimism tear him down so easily. “You need to be quieter. I’ve snuck out of the dormitory enough times since then. I now know what doors they keep locked. How hard would it be?”

Matt took the bucket and dumped water that reeked of stagnant and muddy river over the cobblestones worn smooth from decades of use. Diligently, he continued scrubbing. Garrett could almost hear the iron door closing in his friend’s mind as he spoke, the shockwaves jarring in his gut. “What would we do when we got out? Kids who live on the street don’t live long. We have beds here, they give us food.”

Matt had changed a lot since he spent two days in the closet. His usually perky manner had dulled, that spark of life that was always so _alive_ was defeated and diminished. Garrett could not bear to look at his friend. Instead, he turned away to work on the next section of floor. He focused on the grime that turned the suds grey and brown, on the sharp pain in his knees as the worn cobblestones dug into his skin. They continued in silence, the scratch of rough bristles on smooth stone filling the space between them.

It was a while before Matt spoke again. “Look Garrett, in a few weeks I’ll be old enough to go to work. I’ll have a place to live, I’ll get money. Just wait a year and you can have that too. It’s the best we can get.”

Whatever hope Garrett had of convincing his friend to escape the hell they had endured together for a year was swept away as easily as a draft stifles a guttering candle. It left him cold, but it was a feeling he could endure. It was almost as familiar to him as the shadows that still haunted his dreams. But with everything in his life that was even remotely under his control, he hoarded it and locked it away. In that short year, Garrett had watched his friend slowly lose the fire to fight back against his lot in life. After the last escape attempt and his time in the closet, what small flicker that had been left was extinguished. If anything, Matt’s defeated demeanor only added to Garrett’s passion for a life free from the confining walls of the orphanage, free from the destiny that lay ahead of every child who was dragged through the doors. It took Garrett a long while to reply to his friend. “Don’t work in the mines.”

“What?” Garrett had not noticed Matt move to clean on the other side of the kitchen. The older boy was the only person he allowed himself to relax around. Had it been anyone else, he would have known his every motion, heard every rustle of fabric as he moved. Garrett picked up his scrub brush and moved to work beside his friend once more.

“There was another collapse last week,” Garrett explained, setting brush to stone.

Matt sat up and stretched his shoulders, grimacing with the motion. “How do you know that?”

“I stole the Stick’s newspaper.”

“You _what_?” The change that came over Matt was instantaneous. While before he had been aloof and distant, he was immediately honed and alert. It had always astounded Garrett how quickly the boy could change from one instant to the next. Matt leaned forward, scrubbing loudly to cover their hushed conversation.

Garrett shrugged and joined in the noisy scrubbing. “He never reads it anyway.”

The astonishment in Matt’s eyes had not dissipated. “What’d you do with it?”

“Read it and put it back.” If Matt knew everything he got up to at night while the children were asleep, he might not have been so surprised. It was one of the many things he did not tell Matt, lest the older boy berate him for being so reckless. Sneaking around the orphanage in the late hours of the night was the only thing that kept him sane when the nightmares refused to let him sleep. It was just another way for him to feel as though he had some semblance of control over his life. None of this he could tell Matt. His friend simply would not understand.

Matt shook his head at Garrett and continued scrubbing as he spoke. “You’re crazy. Alright, I’ll try to not work in the mines. They need really small kids for that anyhow. I’ll probably get put to work in the docks or the textile factory, though I probably won’t have much say in it.”

Indeed he did not have any say in it. One morning during breakfast, the Stick approached Matt and dragged him away from his half-eaten bowl of porridge. He gave Garrett a wave. It was the only goodbye he was allowed. Garrett watched as the Stick pulled him from the mess hall, Matt only putting up a mild protest. It was only when evening fell and Matt’s cot was empty that Garrett understood that he was not returning.

Just like that, Garrett was alone.

It was inevitable, but still he felt the hollow place grow in his chest where he locked away the memories of those who had left him.

After Matt was taken away, the other children ignored Garrett as if he were but a phantom. He did not even have Chaz there to verbally berate him for whatever flaws he saw. The larger boy had been taken to go work just a few months previously. His gang had since disbanded and formed their own gangs, but none paid Garrett any heed.

The lack of negative attention was mostly due to Garrett’s absence rather than a sense of respect. Since Matt left, Garrett had stopped going into the yard. He was not missed. Without his friend, the only companions he had left were the shadows. He had taken to holing up in the closet while the rest of the children were outside. He felt safe there. It was also the only place he could sleep without the nightmares berating him. However, it did not save him from the sickening thought that his one true friend could already be dead.

Garrett’s days became a monotonous drone. Without Matt to speak to, all he had to live for were his evening excursions outside the dormitory. Even those began to droll on as the months passed by. He knew where each floorboard squeaked, knew the telltale signs of the Stick during the day that told him at what time he would walk by the dormitories to check on the sleeping children. Walking around unseen in the orphanage became second nature to him, just as simple as whatever mending or cleaning tasks he was given.

Early on he used those excursions to look through Matron’s files to try to find out more information on the death of his parents. He never found anything but a simple paper that showed his birth date and the reason for his coming to the orphanage. Other than that, it was as if he did not exist. He was simply another child to look after, another mouth to feed, another burden to bear. He was insignificant and weak, far too small for his age. Whatever few short interactions he had with the Stick, the stooped man made sure to reinforce those notions upon him.

He was weak, he was small, he was insignificant, he was a burden.

It began making sense after a while. Just that was a terrifying thought and often it kept Garrett awake just as often as the nightmares did. This was all he would ever amount to. He would always be small and weak, would always be a burden. His purpose in life was to work until he died and from what Garrett had read in one of the Stick’s newspapers about yet another child dying from suffocation in the mines or maiming in a textile factory, death would not be very long in coming. That truth sat at the pit of his stomach and grew heavier day to day. Sometimes the weight was so great that he found he could stomach no food. Rather than suffer through eating an old, cold meal later on, he would instead slip away from the stream of children making their way to the mess hall and spend the mealtime in the closet. However, this only worked when the closet was unoccupied. About half of the time there was a child locked within. A quick ear to the door would reveal the sobs or cries of someone within and Garrett would move on, instead hiding in the dormitory.

Any sense of hope was hard to come by in the orphanage and Garrett had an even harder time than most. Whenever he was not out on a nightly excursion or hard at work, his mind was ablaze with anxiety that was so muddled Garrett would have an easier time grasping smoke than his own thoughts and emotions. Matt had been able to bring him back down to the ground. The older boy never knew just how much he inadvertently helped Garrett. Just that fact weighed on Garrett’s guilt. Without Matt, the worry over his friend only redoubled that fog of indiscernible feelings that threatened to burst through him whenever he neglected tamping them down.

At least he had some semblance of control over how he reacted to his nightmares. Ever since he had spent those three days in the closet overcoming the Laudanum withdrawals he had stopped screaming himself awake. Even the night sweats had become less frequent. He could barely remember what occurred in his nightmares, only that there was a deep well of dread and petrifying fear in their suffocating depths.

Even though he had control over his fears, there were still those intrusive thoughts that kept him away from everyone about him. If they got too close, if they knew where he was vulnerable, they would turn against him or leave him. His only defense was to shrink away, to become one with the shadows.

He was small enough, insignificant enough that his absence was hardly ever noted. It was all for the better.

It would just give him more time before the caretakers of the orphanage realized he had escaped.

Garrett bid his time, trying his best to remain a phantom. He began by testing to see how long he could remain unseen without his absence getting noticed. What he quickly realized was there were certain times when being under observation proved to be unavoidable. On the days he was assigned to clean it was impossible to slip away, but when he was crowded in a room with other children and given a pile of mending to do, he could not even show up and his absence was never noted. It was the same with the weekly lessons, though he disliked missing those. He knew little of the world as it was, but he did know that being able to read would be a great asset. It was one of the only things keeping him from immediately running away.

He would run away the night before he was scheduled to do mending. That would be the best time, giving Garrett the longest opportunity to get away before his absence was noticed.

Months passed, another winter come and gone. Garrett was getting older and he knew his time in the orphanage was running short. If he were sold into a trade, there would be a whole new place to escape from, if he even survived long enough to plan an escape. He knew the orphanage like the back of his hand, though he had never ventured outside of it. It would take but a swift look into the Stick’s desk to retrieve the key to the back door and he could escape.

He could not wait until he was sold into a trade. He knew just enough about where the older children in the orphanages were sold to that he knew just where he would be sent. Only the smallest children were sold to the chimney sweeps. From the startlingly frequent yet small reports he read in the newspaper, the life of a chimneysweep boy was woefully short and wrought with danger. One report noted that one child had gotten stuck in a chimney shaft and not found until his body began to smell.

Garrett needed to escape. It was a dire need, a desperate need.

Thus, almost two years after the traumatic events that brought him to the orphanage, Garrett consolidated his plan of escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for time jumps!  
> Next time on Shadow Borne, find out if Garrett's plan of escape works!


	6. Chapter 6

Bare feet pounded on rough cobblestone, slipping on the thin film of rain that still descended from above. The light from the streetlamps pooled and offered little light to see by. The light spring rain slicked down his cheeks, replacing the tears he had once shed that fateful night when the nightmare began. Now he was running away from it. Running away from it all.

Garrett’s heart thrummed in his chest, eyes open and alert despite the rain running into them. Every sense was sharp, the breaths rasping into his chest a jolt of cold.

This had gone nothing according to plan. Garrett berated himself for that, the mental barrage enough to make him collapse but he still continued on. He needed to get far away as fast as possible. It did not matter what direction he went so long as it was away.

What had happened? He had panicked. That was what happened. He had been heading to the kitchen to take some food to sustain him for a few days outside the orphanage when he heard footsteps. He already had the backdoor key in his hand but none of the supplies he had wanted to take. Every instinct told him to run and run he did.

Thus, he ran. He ran through the backdoor and onto the dark streets, careful to avoid venturing into the solid light provided by the streetlamps and instead staying to the darkest corners. Somewhere along the way he had dropped the key to the the orphanage. It was another point to berate himself for. Had he kept it, he would have had access to the kitchens and supplies. No, Garrett told himself. He would never return to that place. To return there would mean surrendering himself and that thought sickened him.

Garrett would rather die cold, alone, and free instead of locked up like a bird in a cage just waiting to be sold to the butcher’s knife.

When his legs could carry him no longer and his side contorted with cramps, he ducked into an alleyway and from there found an alcove leading to what he figured was a cellar. A quick check at the handle proved it to be bolted shut. At least the space provided shelter from the soft rain, though his clothes were already soaked through. Garrett tucked himself away in the corner, the cold stone at his back reminding him all too much of the closet he had grown so used to. An ache in his breast that he could not quite identify sat with him and he pulled his legs tighter to his chest to counteract the hollowness of it. Eventually the hammering of his heart was replaced with a cold that drove deep into him, sending wave upon wave of chills through him.

This was better, Garrett told himself. Better to die due to his own faulty planning and rash actions than to die stuck in the shaft of a chimney with ash in his lungs. Garrett felt his eyes threaten to shut and he shook himself awake. No. He would not die here. He still had to find Matt. He still had to live, if only to prove to himself that he could. He had escaped the hell that had been his confining home for two years, escaped those monsters that dared call themselves caretakers. They had done little in way of caretaking. They had kept him alive to be sure, though only just. He had grown little in those two years and learned little besides what he taught himself. He had taught himself how to be quiet and unseen, how to detach from those around him so they would not call attention to him. When he had drawn attention to himself… Garrett could hardly recall the tongue lashings he had gotten, sometimes accompanied by a sounding with the Stick’s namesake. He had repressed those memories, like so many others. They were useless to dwell upon. And yet his most recent failures continued to hound his thoughts.

His only friend had been taken from him before they could escape together. It was a guilt that still hung over his shoulders. Garrett had failed to convince Matt to escape with him and thus sealed him to the fate he had always been destined: to be a throwaway worker little better than a slave.

Garrett shivered himself awake again and hoped that dawn was not far off. The spring shower would have to lighten up then, and possibly he could find his way to the docks. It was where they had taken Matt. A quick excursion to Matron’s office and a look into his file told him as much.

He would find where the docks were in the morning, but first he had to survive the night. It had been unplanned to leave in the spring. Garrett certainly had thought of leaving during the previous winter. Now that he was shivering in the light rain of spring he was glad he was not so reckless.

The dawn was long in coming, the cold and the unsettling fear that he had been followed by the Stick keeping him vigilant through the early hours of morning. Just as the city around him brightened to that dull light that washed everything to a muddy gray, Garrett straightened his legs and stretched his stiff joints. The morning chill cut through his still damp clothes, a gasp coming unbidden to him and gripping his lungs with the shock of cold.

He had to keep moving. If he stayed there and waited for the sun to rise, the chance that someone would come to the door he sat beside would become a hazard. Garrett gritted his teeth and stood, knees shaking from the cold and the cramps it had brought on in the night. The rain had mercifully stopped a few hours before. The sun would dry his clothes. Garrett had only to seek the docks to find Matt, then all would be well. His friend would help him. He had to. Garrett could only rely on himself for so long and that time was quickly coming to an end. That fact was painfully obvious.

Garrett wandered through streets just beginning to wake from a long rainy night. The more he moved, the less his teeth chattered. It was not much but it helped him continue on. He passed by stalls selling food and wares, the shopkeepers just setting up for the day. He continued on until he was struck by a scent so warm, so full that he did not notice that he had stopped until a sharp gust of wind sliced through his damp clothes and shivered him back to awareness. Unaware that he had then begun following the scent, he found himself looking into a window of a shop. Inside was lit with a warm light, the back walls glowing as the brick ovens smoldered. There was a counter and a few stools sitting at the back wall. Those were things he noticed but not what caught Garrett’s attention. It was the window display, proudly boasting baskets that he could have easily fit inside filled with golden loaves of bread of all shapes and sizes. So enthralled he did not hear the woman inside yelling at him until the bristles of her broom hit him in the side.

“You heard me, get! Can’t have customers lose their appetite lookin’ at you when they are a comin’ in here.” Garrett only looked at her, words failing him. She wore an apron so caked with flour that if she added water and yeast it could have made a nice loaf of bread in itself. Her eyes narrowed and Garrett’s stomach dropped. Before she could raise her broom to shoo him again, he took off down the street. Only then did he feel the emptiness in his stomach complain from lack of nourishment. Garrett ignored the feeling. It was all too familiar.

He would get food when he found Matt. Then everything would be alright. He had lasted this far on his own, he could last until he met up with his friend.

If only he knew where the docks were.

It was midday before his dragging feet and the empty pit in his stomach drove him to abandon his search. He needed food, he needed rest. Garrett could only imagine how the few passerby saw him. A pitiful little child soon to be found dead in the gutter no doubt. He scowled at the thought, ducking into less populated side streets to avoid those pitying stares. They knew nothing of his life. He could survive on his own, at least until he found Matt. He just needed food and rest, then he would continue on his search.

The problem was, there was no mess hall to go to, no Cook to give him a bowl of that horrendous grey sludge. He had no coin and not even a blanket to sleep on. Garrett stepped into an alleyway and was immediately struck by a potent stench. It gripped his nose and almost made him gag. When he ventured further he saw the reason for the overpowering smell. Piles of garbage and waste lined either side of the alleyway, the warm sun beating on the damp piles. The air was thick with it, sticking at the back of his throat like bile. Whatever hunger that bit at his stomach was immediately gone. Garrett turned away from the alleyway knowing if he passed through it he would likely be sick.

It had not even been a full day and he was regretting leaving the orphanage not for the first time. No. He shook his head, abandoning the thought. The orphanage had brought upon everything terrible in his life. He would have died there or been taken from there to die elsewhere. Garrett remained steadfast, pulling down a cleaner alleyway to clear his dizzy head. He was stumbling now and a tremor in his hands had become all too noticeable. Food was a top priority; Matt would have to wait.

There was a bump and scrape in front of him. Garrett’s heart jolted in his chest and he pressed himself against a wall that was not as shaded as he had previously thought. A door opened on the opposite side of the alleyway, a bearded man stepping through. He carried a basket and was about to tip it over a small pile of rubbish when something caught his eye. Garrett froze as the old man’s beady eyes locked onto him.

“You want some food, rat?” The gravely tone was mocking, malice in his stare. Garrett made no move and voiced no answer. His stomach gave a loud complaint and he hoped the man could not hear it. Something flashed across that bearded man’s face and he stepped further out into the alleyway. The basket was upturned and the contents fell directly into a murky puddle. It was just a partially eaten loaf of bread and some fruit that looked more like brown rocks than anything edible. “You want it? Come and eat.” The old man stood over the morsels of food. Even from where Garrett stood he could see the bread soaking in the gray water and he imagined how it would have tasted fresh from the bakery. Despite himself, his mouth began to water.

There was something about the old man that made him shudder though. He stood too close to the offered food and that glint in his eye… Garrett turned and ran. Obscenities echoed off the walls behind him and he continued running. Only when he could not hear the man’s voice any longer did he stop, trying to regain control over his breath after the frantic sprint.

A rat. The man had called him a rat. If Garrett was the rat, then the food was the bait and the old man the trap. Garrett did not want to know what would happen if he got trapped. He would get returned to the orphanage, sold into a trade, or even worse horrors that Garrett could not even comprehend.

Still, it was the first edible-looking food he had seen that day that he had a chance at getting. Garrett waited an hour before returning to that alleyway. When he glanced down it, it was empty but he did not take any chances. He saw the loaf of bread, his target. Garrett took off at a sprint. Just as he approached the bread he heard the door open just beside him. With a twist he avoided the hand reaching for him, one hand stretched out for balance and the other securing a hold on the morsel of food. With a roar echoing behind him, he tore out of the alleyway clutching the damp bread to his chest like it was life itself. He ran further away this time, ducking under a set of rotting stairs and concealing himself in shadow. There he remained, heart thundering in his breast and senses wide open. All he could discern was the distant bustle of a crowded street.

As satisfied as he could be with his current safety, Garrett turned to his hard-won prize. It was little more than half of a loaf of bread almost all soaked through with gray water. What was not damp was solid as a rock. Pulled by hunger, Garrett bit into the end of it, the watery and grainy texture reminding him too much of the porridge he had been served every day for the past two years. Even the color was similar. The taste mattered little; most everything tasted the same to Garrett. It was all dull nourishment to be endured rather than savored. And endured it he did. He almost felt sick by the last bite, but at least the aching hollowness in his stomach was gone.

That was when the exhaustion struck him. It beat him down like a heavy weight over his whole body. Every bit of him ached and moving his limbs was like trying to lift one of Cook’s huge sacks of flour. It was all he could do to pull himself further beneath the set of stairs before fatigue pulled him into its dark depths.

The next Garrett woke it was to a deep golden sun washing the city in its orange light. There was tightness in his stomach that Garrett could not identify. It could have been hunger, sickness from the bread, or simply an anxious dread. He suppressed the discomfort and emerged from his hiding spot. The bustle of the city had quieted, the muffled sounds of people he could not see now coming from behind lit windows and shut doors. It was a lonely thing to witness, but with the citizens of the city within the walls of their homes they could not see one scrawny boy lurking about in the shadows. It was the only condolence he had.

Garrett dared adventure onto the main street, earlier so populated that seeing it now in its empty state made it look surreal. Not taking any chances, he darted behind a closed stall. A sweet scent filled his nose, such a stark contrast to the stench he had been surrounded by before. A quick peek beneath the burlap cloth covering the stall revealed a single basket of apples. They were bruised and some were wrinkled but the aroma they gave off was dizzyingly delicious. No doubt they were last week’s shipment and due to be thrown out the next morning.

He took as many as he could carry and then some, pulling up his overly large shirt to make a pouch to carry them in. Before he could scurry away, voices echoing up the empty street caught his attention. Crouching out of sight behind the stall, Garrett chanced a look.

Garrett immediately regretted that decision. As soon as his eyes fell upon the two helmeted men walking up the street, a wave of vertigo overcame him and he fell into that nightmare he had thought was in his distant past. A shriek filled his every sense, a leather gloved hand grasped around his arm, there was jam on the floor… no he knew now that it had not been jam. Everything he knew and loved came crashing down in one blow and he descended into the nightmare, the shadows screeching around him, tearing him apart, ripping what little he had in the world away from him-

Running. He was running. There was a yell behind him. His hand still clutched at his shirt and he could feel something heavy swinging and bumping into his chest. The apples. So startled by the silly notion that he had somehow kept a hold of the apples Garrett almost stopped running. Then he heard the angered yell behind him again. Releasing himself to instinct, he allowed his feet to continue carrying him further into the winding streets, around corners and into smaller and tighter alleyways. The yells grew distant but he kept running. He only stopped when his bare feet were so sore from slamming on the uneven cobblestones that he could barely limp forward. A stack of wooden crates caught his eye and he tucked himself in among them. Anyone walking down the alleyway would have to climb over the crates in order to see him. Even with that reassurance, Garrett remained vigilant.

It was well into the night before he dared peek into his shirt and inspect his cache. There were five apples there. Some must have bounced out during his frantic escape. He picked one up, not bothering to inspect it for rotten spots before he took a bite. The overpowering sweetness almost made him gag. The skin was as tough as leather, the texture grainy and soft.

Not sure how he managed to stomach them, Garrett ate two of the apples. They left him feeling more ill than the sopping bread had, that sickly sweetness sticking in his mouth. He waited for the feeling to pass but it did not. It did not matter, he had felt worse before. Garrett crawled out of his hiding spot amongst the crates. Garrett had to keep going, had to keep looking for the docks. Gathering the remaining three apples in his shirt, he set out once more. Feet still so sore from his frantic sprint earlier, it was all Garrett could do to hobble forward, one hand clenching his shirt to keep his apples in the makeshift pouch.

The towering buildings on either side of the small alleyway cut off what little moonlight there was and with no streetlamps or torches in such a tight area, he could barely see his way forward. He turned to the left and found a dead end. Retracing his steps, he came to another dead end. Which way had he come from? Garrett pressed on, choosing one direction and sticking to it as best he could. At least the alleyway was mercifully quiet. Those people dwelling within the houses had long since gone to bed, the light once spilling from their windows extinguished.

Garrett came to yet another dead end. Frustrated and exhausted, he sat with his back to the wall. Just as he did so, it shifted behind him. Garrett pulled away from the wall just as a broad wooden board collapsed flat onto the damp cobblestone street. What lay beyond it was a dark hole just large enough for Garrett to crawl into. With little to lose, he did just that.

It was difficult keeping the apples in his shirt and crawling forward on his knees but he persisted. The tunnel through the stone wall was a short one with an abrupt end. Garrett found the end by coming face to face with a solid surface, smacking his nose into the wooden board. Tears sprung to his eyes but he quickly blinked them away. No use in crying now.

He was about to give up and turn back the way he came when a sharp cool wind battered the other side of the blocking board. There was a whistle and he could feel the wind upon his cheeks. Determined to continue forward, Garrett pressed against the board and felt it give way. It took all his strength to unblock the path and slip through. With a few more shuffles forward, the wind whipped at his cheeks and he finally saw moonlight. What that cold light revealed took the breath from Garrett.

The building that rose before him looked to be the skeleton of a great beast, its tall spires standing naked and stark against the black sky. It was all at once oppressive and magnificent. Garrett could hardly imagine what the immense chapel had looked like before it was a ruin. All he could see were those tall pillars with crumbling bricks at their base, old headstones tilted to the side from centuries of rain shifting the dirt, and wooden benches that looked more like firewood than anything else.

High above, what was once a glorious stained glass window was little more than a frame of twisted metal with a few shards of glass clinging onto it.

Feeling all too exposed next to the towering monstrosity, Garrett stole to the side. The structure reminded him all too much of that helmeted shadow that loomed over him in his nightmares. Safely out from under its oppressive height, Garrett continued past the tilted headstones and through the small plaza at the front of the ruined chapel. He made his way down a flight of steps and spotted a gathering of old wooden crates. Wooden boxes had provided him shelter earlier, so Garrett felt safe climbing behind them. Behind the boxes a tall metal fence stood vigilant and unused for countless years. Garrett lost himself in the shadows the alcove offered. As soon as he sat, the continued ache in his feet made it abundantly clear that he would not be able to continue his search that night.

Garrett took up another apple and ate through half of it before his stomach cramped too painfully to continue. Put off by the rotten fruit, he set it aside with the other two apples. He curled in upon himself, sinking to the dirt as the cramps ground in his gut. As terrible as the food had been in the orphanage, Garrett had never gotten sick off of it. The sickly sensation reminded him all too much of his recovery after the prolonged doses of Laudanum. Only this time he was not in his secluded closet with his faithful blanket draped about him. He was curled up in the dirt beside a centuries-old gate with nothing to his name but the oversized clothes on his back and two and a half rotten apples. It was a miserable affair. The pain in his stomach was unrelenting, allowing him no solace of sleep. He did not want to sleep anyhow. Death felt as though it clung to this place and Garrett knew the nightmares would not be long in coming. Thus he lay awake until the sun beat away the low mist clinging to the cobblestone street beyond his shelter. It was only then that the fist constricting his gut finally released him and he slipped into an exhausted sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Garrett just can't catch a break, can he?


	7. Chapter 7

“I saw him crawl back there last night. Looked pretty sick to me.”

“Poor child. He has come so far and he has a long way to go yet.”

“What do you see of him?”

“There are many paths that lie before him. His life hangs in the balance as do all with such a future.”

“Will you take him in?”

“He will never be one of us. Leave him water and let him rest. The sickness has already passed.”

The man’s voice was soft but the other… that woman’s voice was old. Not just in the way age had roughened it but just her words felt ancient. Garrett stirred, slowly drawing himself out of his heavy sleep. Beyond the dark alcove he found himself in, the city was drenched in red light. The metal gate he sat beside pierced the brilliantly colored sky, cutting through it with its twisted black bars. Whoever those two voices belonged to were long gone. Upon further inspection, Garrett discovered a small metal pale filled to the brim with clear water. Before setting eyes upon it he had been unaware of the clawing thirst in his throat. Garrett drank until his stomach bulged painfully, reveling in the cool water. Thirst quenched, Garrett’s gaze fell to what was left of the apples he had stolen. What he found was a patchy gray rat, fur so mangled Garrett would have thought it dead had it not scurried away with an indignant squeak. All that was left of the apples were the twisted brown stems and a few scraps of leathery skin. It was for the best. He did not think he could manage another bout of stomach cramps from eating another one.

Garrett chanced standing, every sense alert as he emerged from the half-rotted wooden crates that had provided him shelter as he slept. Movement to his left caught his eye and he spun to face whatever it was. A man wearing a shirt and pants that were little more than tattered rags stepped around the corner at the top of the stairs. Garrett froze as the man’s gaze locked with his own. It was too late to run, so he stood his ground.

Garrett suppressed a flinch as he was addressed. It had been a long while since anyone had spoken directly to him. “Follow me, you have been summoned.” A swift gesture was all Garrett got before the man turned his back, disappearing back around the corner. He was not sure what compelled him to obey the man, but the next he knew he was stepping between the gravestones, ground soft and spongy beneath his bare feet. It was a nice relief from the harsh cobblestones that had bruised his feet previously. He glanced up at the colossal crumbling structure before him only briefly, needing to focus more on the various few people lurking in the shadows and sitting upon the wooden benches. They paid him no heed. Indeed, they hardly looked alive. There was a lit torch and a blazing brazier deep within the ruins of the chapel, offsetting the swiftly darkening sky and keeping the mist that clung to the ground at bay.

So focused on these observations, Garrett failed to notice his escort stop before what used to be the altar of the chapel. Upon the steps, groups of lit candles were scattered about intermittently with trinkets, books, and other such items that Garrett could not readily identify. The man approached a pile of rags and offered a hand down to it. More than a little startled, Garrett looked on as a slim white hand protruded from the rags. He could then discern that it indeed was a person as she was helped to her feet. So draped in furs and coats, Garrett could not tell what shape her body was or even if she had one. The clothing she wore had been lavish in its youth, the cloth thick and once dyed deep rich colors. Now both the clothes and the woman looked as though they had been sitting in an attic for a century. Garrett would not have been surprised if whenever she moved a cloud of accumulated dust would envelop her.

He unconsciously retreated back a step as those almost hollow and clouded grey eyes bore into him, flashing with an unearthly glow. Even with him standing as far back as the second row of benches, he felt as though she were breathing down his neck. That stare petrified him, making him feel that every secret he had ever held was exposed and at this woman’s mercy. It left him feeling raw, his skin crawling with more than just the evening chill. Every hair on his body stood on end, every muscle ready to spring to action if circumstances required a hasty retreat. Her bony white hand beckoned him forward and he was compelled to move, though he remained vigilant to his keen senses.

The woman’s deep red lips turned upward, the wrinkles and folds in her cheeks sweeping aside like moth-eaten curtains. “Well child, you have found this place at last. Tell me, what is your name?”

Her voice carried with it the same unsettling power he had heard before. It set him on edge but he dared not move, dared not flee. Somehow he knew he would never be able to escape her scrutiny. It took him a moment to shake himself and force his tongue to work. “Garrett.”

“Ah, young Garrett. An interesting name given who you are. They call me the Queen of Beggars and this is my court. A pretentious title but it is an apt description. Why have you come here?” As she spoke, the man who had led Garrett to the chapel aided her in descending the steps.

More than slightly confused at the old woman’s words, Garrett answered as simply as he could. “I’m looking for the docks.”

“Those are a long way south from here. Why go to such a place?” The way the woman spoke it was as if she already knew the answer and only asked out of courtesy. What kind of person was this? She was like no queen Garrett had ever heard of.

“My friend is there.”

The old woman bowed her head into a deep nod. “You should not venture too far too quickly, young Garrett. Be persistent but remain vigilant. Keep your eyes open and look. Keep your ears uncovered and listen. Return here when need be and my beggars will provide sanctuary.”

“I can look after myself.” Who was this woman to give him such advice? She was far too familiar with him far too quickly. It was yet another element to this old woman that set him on edge. Even so, he felt a pull, an obligation of a sort to speak to the woman.

“Not everyone can survive alone.”

“When I find my friend I won’t have to.”

“Quite. Just remember my doors are always open to those in need and my eyes, well,” that thin smile returned, “you will see.”

Released from the woman’s petrifying spell, Garrett spun on his heel and quickly departed feeling more unsettled than he had before meeting the old woman, the Queen of Beggars as she had called herself. The interaction had gone by so quickly he had not even asked her name beyond her title. Somehow he knew that she did not have one, she simply _was_ the Queen of Beggars. It was almost as if she just always had been. He shook himself. The docks were to the south; that was what the old woman said. Now all Garrett had to do was find out just which direction that was.

His question was immediately answered. The same man who had beckoned to him and helped the old woman appeared beside him. It took quite a bit of willpower to keep from violently flinching away from him, but Garrett managed to keep himself in check. He cursed his reaction to the sudden appearance of the man, heart not calming as fast as he would like. Garrett looked on as the man pointed a finger knobby with swollen knuckles to a tall structure piercing the darkening sky. Garrett knew that building. Everyone in the City knew that place; it was visible from practically any street. The Clocktower. “That direction is south. Once you reach the Clocktower Plaza, keep going in that direction along Baron’s Way. You’ll eventually find the river. From there it’s easy to find the docks. It’s Eelbiter territory so watch yourself.”

It took him half of the night to walk the distance. When he finally got a whiff of the muddy, thick air of the river his hunger was making his steps sloppy and his hands shake. He was forced to stop his search for the docks in lieu of finding nourishment. It was behind an empty stall that he discovered a small package of dried meat. The shopkeeper must have accidentally left it behind when he closed for the evening. It was not much but it gave Garrett enough energy to continue on his way.

The heavy smell of the river eventually turned to the sharp, fishy stench of stale brine as the river made its abrupt end at the Watch Customs Bridge and flowed into the saltwater bay. Just as abrupt as the transition of water was the transition between the City Watch and the black-clad men patrolling the southernmost region of the City. Garrett looked upon two of these men from a secure hiding place deep in the shadows on the edge of the street. These men - Eelbiters he figured - openly carried crossbows as opposed to the City Watch who kept their swords sheathed at their sides. These men were dangerous. Just one glance at their hardened gazes told Garrett as much. Instead of taking him in for proper judgment as the Watch was supposed to, these men would kill anyone not associated with them on sight and they would do so without remorse.

Garrett could only hope that Matt had escaped the clutches of the Eelbiters. No, Garrett tried to convince himself, Matt was under the care of a dock master. He was provided for. Garrett would find him and together they would survive. It was the only hope he had left.

Dawn was still hours away. It was an easy feat finding a secluded corner to hole up in as he waited. So many stacks of crates and barrels filled every corner near the docks, draped with old and tattered fishing nets. Into one of these makeshift shelters Garrett crawled. Exploring the docks would best be done during the day when the Eelbiters were not on patrol. Eventually Garrett succumbed to sleep, only partially woken from time to time as an Eelbiter strolled close to his hiding spot.

Before he knew it, the bright rays of sunlight streamed through the mesh of the fishing net above him. It was hot on his cheek and bright on his eyes. It was midday at least. This was startling, but not as startling as the fact that the loud bustle of dock workers had not woken him earlier. Garrett emerged from his hiding place and immediately had to jump to the side as a dock worker pushed by with a barrel in his arms.

“Watch it, kid,” was the gruff warning he got. Garrett blinked at the bright noon light, not quite sure when was the last time he had been in the full sunlight. He brushed off that thought, keenly aware that he was visible to any passerby. Luckily, he was small enough that traversing the bustling docks was a simple matter of weaving between the workers. The cobblestone at his feet melted into worn wooden slats as he made his way closer to the waterfront. He eventually broke free of the crowd and was met with the spectacular wide view of the river. The lighthouse stood sentry just within the bridge that filtered the river into the bay. On the horizon beyond it stood the eastern city across the river. Garrett looked beyond the bridge to the west and was met with another spectacular view. Littered about the bay were ships larger than Garrett had ever imagined. On the opposite bank was more of the city, the buildings eventually dissipating into the mouth of the bay with the ocean laying far beyond.

So enthralled by the expanse he did not hear the footsteps behind him until a heavy push made him lose his footing. He stumbled to catch himself and pulled himself out of the way of the man who had shoved him aside with so little care. Garrett took this in stride. It was only natural. He was in the way, just another burden.

Not for long. He would find Matt. That was his only goal and he was determined to see it come to be. Bolstering himself, Garrett pressed forward. He wove his way around the men working at the docks, eyes darting about for any sign of a familiar blond mop of hair. It did not take long before Garrett knew his search would return no results if he carried on thus. The docks were simply too long and too crowded to find any one person. So he set out finding workers to ask the whereabouts of his friend.

The first man he approached hardly gave him a passing glance before Garrett opened his mouth. “Do you know Matt?”

The answer was a gruff grunt, the man barely acknowledging him before he crossed his hands over his chest and turned his head away.

His other attempts did not go as smoothly. When he was not ignored, he was yelled at, called a rat or scum, and one man swatted him away like an annoying fly. This continued long into the afternoon. It was almost worse treatment than he had gotten in the orphanage. At least there he could slip by unscathed. Here there was no such safety net. The workers were rough and abrupt, having no time for a child’s simple question.

Dejected, Garrett slipped out of the crowd of dock workers. There was a smaller dock just down the way, beyond the building marked as Sirens Rest. It took some doing but Garrett eventually found his way to it. There was an older man who appeared to be inspecting a stack of barrels. Garrett had little hope, but he approached the man anyways.

“Do you know Matt?” It had been his mantra through the afternoon, always followed by a swift naysay.

This time the man he asked actually looked down at him, looked and _saw_ him. It was such a shock to be actually acknowledged that Garrett barely registered the man’s response.

“Matt?” The man pondered, rubbing his chin that was covered in thick gray stubble. As he shrugged his shoulders, Garrett’s heart sank. “Can’t recall.”

Garrett’s hopes dropped out from under him. He did not even bother thanking the man for the information. He simply lowered his head and stared at his bare feet as they carried him a few steps away from the man.

“Hey kid!” Garrett froze as he was addressed. The old man’s tone carried not scorn or anger but was helpful. Even so, he was wary as he turned to look at the man. “You need work? There is a ship coming in to port tomorrow that’ll need help unloading goods.”

Work at the docks? If Garrett worked there, he might come across Matt. He might even be able to work alongside his friend. Eager at this prospect but still unsure, Garrett nodded.

“Yeah? Go talk to Greer over there.” The old man pointed to the end of the short dock where a tall gangly man was exchanging words with someone just out of sight, presumably in a boat on the water. “Tell him you want to work transporting goods.”

Garrett did just that and departed the small dock with a purpose. He would return the following morning and help a ship unload its wares. What exactly that constituted, Garrett did not know. All he cared about was finding Matt and working at the docks was his best chance at coming across his friend. He had to maintain that hope or there was nothing left for him. Nothing left save the shadows the city provided that were too new to offer him any comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh, all I can think of is the Where the Hell is Matt youtube videos...  
> Anyhow! I just want to take the time to thank all my dear readers who are still with me even after all the terrible things I've done to Garrett. Just know it's going to get worse before it gets better. Until Tuesday! Cheers!


	8. Chapter 8

“A bit small to be working on the docks, aren’t you?”

Garrett scowled up at the tall gangly man scrutinizing him. “I can work.” In this he was adamant. He had to stay around the docks to find Matt.

“Better hope you can. This ship has been waiting out in the bay for three days waitin’ for a dock to open up so she can unload her cargo.” The ship he was referring to was a small trading vessel anchored out just beyond Sirens Rest. In the early dawn light, the crew of the ship could be seen bustling about on deck. Garrett was shoved forward, barely catching himself before he stumbled off the end of the short pier and into the rowboat that was tied there. “What are you waiting for? Get in.”

As quickly as he could, Garrett clambered into the small boat, carelessly kicking the oars and bumping his shin in the process. He pushed aside the sharp pain, quite aware of Greer’s scrutinizing gaze watching his every move. Once he was situated, Greer motioned for the old man who had first greeted Garrett. In one fluid motion the old man slipped into the small boat and took up the oars that Garrett had tripped over. It was a motion wrought from a lifetime of working in and around the sea, every motion made with deep knowledge. Without so much as a good morning, the old man launched the boat out into the bay.

Even with the relatively calm waters, each small wake made the small boat lurch dangerously from side to side. This did not appear to alarm the old man who rowed past the wooden beams sticking out of the water with as much ease as breathing. Garrett however had to clutch both sides of the boat to feel steady enough to ensure he would not be pitched overboard. When he was not being constantly vigilant at staying in the boat, he watched the old man work the oars. It was his job to return the boat filled with cargo to the dock while the old man stayed aboard the ship to take inventory. The rowing technique did not seem all too complicated. Push forward, twist the oars so the blades were up and down, then pull. Simple enough.

In no time at all, they pulled up alongside the small trading ship. The man, old as he was, scurried up the low hull with no effort at all. Garrett remained in the boat, waiting for the cargo to get lowered down. It took some doing but eventually the boat was stacked high with crates and barrels. It sat so low in the water that Garrett was afraid one more box would swamp the boat. As he was waiting for the boat to get loaded up, the calm waters became less so, the sea tide coming up and battling with the outpouring river.

There was a yell from above and Garrett set out back to the dock. He assumed the spot the old man had vacated, taking up the oars. All he could see before him were the stacked crates and when he looked behind, three massive barrels blocked his view.

Garrett steeled himself and shoved away from the ship’s hull. He had to do this job well so he could continue working on the docks, so he could continue his search for Matt. He might even get paid. Just the thought of having a fresh roll of bread from the bakery he had passed by urged him on. Everything depended on this.

As soon as he put the oars in the water, he knew there would be much more trouble than he anticipated. For one, even when he thought both oars were in the water, when he turned to look there was only one barely touching the frothy surface. He made the same motions as the old man had, oars barely scraping the top of the water. It took some doing and a lot more muscle than he anticipated, but he eventually got the motions right. The second predicament was the fact that he was facing away from where he was traveling to. Even when he glanced over his shoulder, the huge barrels stood in the way of his view.

It was a long struggle and soon Garrett’s arms were quivering with the strain. He had only made it halfway to the dock after all that effort and had moved mostly due to the current. By that time, the current had come up swift and rough, the tide working against the flow of the river and jostling the small boat around.

Garrett struggled to maintain stability of the boat, foregoing any forward motion with keeping the water from slopping over the side. It was too much, too new and Garrett had no clue how to handle the situation. Panic gripped in his chest and was redoubled when the boat gave a huge lurch and he was tossed to the side as it struck one of the wooden beams sticking out of the water. As Garrett rubbed his arm where he had fallen against the side of the boat, he could barely discern furious yelling coming from the direction of the dock. He was simply too focused on struggling to maintain his seat in the boat to notice anything else. The next the boat struck a wooden beam, there was a decidedly unsettling shift in the heavy cargo in front of Garrett.

A swift look to his left revealed the dock not five paces away. Whatever hope that brought him was immediately doused. The next he knew, the boat tipped yet again and the crates before him shifted with it. Instead of righting again as it had before, the boat continued to lean, the boxes sliding. In one miscalculated but well-intentioned leap of faith, Garrett lunged for the crates threatening to drop into the frothy brine. It was a mistake. It all was a mistake.

A briny maw enveloped his body as the boat slipped out from under him. What breath he had in his lungs was shocked out of him, the crushing cold taking his middle and constricting him, pulling him down. Garrett thrashed against the watery beast encompassing him, fighting for air that was not at his lips. It was maddening chaos. There was no up from down. His flailing hands jammed against solid objects and he scrambled to find a handhold on something - _anything_. His hands were not grasping, his legs stiffening and numb.

He was being tossed around like some rag and he was powerless against the force of the water. His lungs screamed for air but all that entered his mouth was salty water. His feet kicked and found no purchase. His hands reached for objects that were too slippery to grab. Garrett opened his eyes and the sting of the water was barely noticeable compared to the terror gripping him, the pressure driving him deeper into the water. The sun was bright overhead, streams of light blinding compared to the crushing, turbid abyss below.

Getting in the boat, going to the docks, leaving the orphanage - everything was a mistake and now Garrett was drowning in the briny waters of the city of his birth, far away from anything he had ever known.

That was when his hand found something solid that did not move out of his way as soon as he touched it. Desperate, he made one last lunge away from that deep darkness below him and heaved himself upwards. His face broke the surface, the breath he took agony. Before he knew it, the back of his shirt was grabbed and he almost choked as he was dragged onto the dock. He landed in a heap, no better than a wet rag. He fought for breath and eventually he gave a great cough, the whole of the ocean seeming to be expelled from his lungs with every crushing heave of his chest. Each breath was a grinding agony but something so beautiful as well.

Only then did he hear the rabid yells directed at him. He was taken up, shaken, and tossed back down to the deck. Garrett had no energy to protest, not even when a heavy boot collided with his side. If anything, it helped him cough up more water. His eyesight eventually cleared, the salt water still feeling like sand scratching his eyes with every blink.

The first thing he saw left a hollow hole in his gut. All of the cargo he was charged with bringing to the dock was floating out into the bay alongside the upturned boat. It had been a mistake; he was not strong enough, not skilled enough, not-

“Get out of here, kid! I can’t have a useless taffer working on my dock destroying cargo from the men I’m supposed to be serving!” Another kick in the side and Garrett could not stop the cry that escaped him.  “Just get out. You’re lucky you survived. I don’t want to be the next guy with a dead kid on his watch. Last year’s was bad enough.”

It was only that last bit that Garrett caught onto. “Last year?” His throat was raw, but he forced the words out through chattering teeth, brought on by the adrenalin working with the icy cold water that had sapped whatever warmth he had in him.

It surprised him that Greer took the time to answer him, even in the man’s rage. “You ain’t heard? What, you hear worse than you row? Some blond kid got crushed between some crates. Ruined some good cargo. Get out of here before I have to clean your corpse like they had to do with his.” Garrett rolled away before the heavy boot could connect with his side again. He scrambled to his feet as best he could, managing only a crawl for a good ways before he got his legs under him. Even then, his strength gave out after only a block and he collapsed at the side of the cobblestone road. It did not matter much that the fall hurt. At least he had a solid surface beneath him.

“Hey, move it rat.”

Garrett jolted to his feet, vision swimming black for a moment and he forced himself to focus. He was away before whoever had told him to move could utter another word. He needed to be safe, he needed to be hidden. Greer could change his mind at any moment and seek bloody revenge for the lost cargo. Running like some nightmarish beast was at his heels, Garrett made his way north away from the docks. He did not get far before his legs gave out once more. Even the noon sun could not cut away the chill that ran through his core, made worse by the swift sea breeze that howled down every street.

All that was left for him to do was to wait for his body to gain strength again. He found a dark alcove and huddled within it. It was far from ideal, too open to provide adequate shelter from the wind and not deep enough to stop wandering eyes from seeing his shaking form. There was nothing for it. He was too tired to continue on and too cold to move. His sopping clothing hung heavily about him, doing nothing to warm him and in fact doing the exact opposite. He was overcome with convulsing shivers, hands and feet numb from the icy swim.

Yet again he was curled up alone in the dark, shivering and with no hope of reprieve.

As cold as he was, those chilling words Greer had spat at him cut him even deeper. A blond boy had been crushed between some crates a year ago. It had to be a coincidence. Only a coincidence. The more he denied it the deeper the sinking feeling in his chest went. It grew into such a deep well of doubt that he retreated from it, shoving the swarming thoughts away.

What he was left with was cold. Just the cold. It seeped into him, his sopping clothes gathering it and enveloping him with its inescapable bite. Garrett gathered his arms and tucked them close to his chest, bringing his knees up next. It helped cut off the wind for the most part, but the icy brine was unrelenting in its embrace. It still dribbled in rivers from his head down his neck, glacial fingers clawing into his skin.

Garrett remained clutched in a shivering ball until his knees seized up. Try as he might to move, he found he could not. Not with the chills still wracking through his body in an unrelenting tremor. Whatever energy he still had after his desperate attempt to not drown was drained by the frigid cold. Garrett found himself slipping into sleep and he willingly went with it, too numb to give a care. No one was looking out for him. Matt was… he was… nowhere to be found. Even the shadows did not provide any solace.

He was cold. He was alone.

So he closed his eyes to rest, hoping against hope that when he woke, all that had transpired would be but a nightmare. Hope… even the notion was so distant that Garrett could not rightfully hold it in his chest. It was a fleeting thing, just as everything and everyone in his life had been. There was just him, alone in the city, alone in the small nook he had found to shelter him, alone with just himself to provide warmth. Even those he could not adequately provide.

So he slept.

\---

A tickle at his ankle brought him from the clutches of deep sleep. A sharp pain on his heel brought him to sudden awareness. Garrett jolted and was confronted by a gray rat, its beady black eyes setting him on edge. He had never liked rats. Garrett kicked his foot out at the creature, regretting the hasty motion immediately. His whole leg cramped up and he almost cried out from the pain. As he eased his muscles, he noticed just how dark it was around him. How long had he slept?

It took some doing, but Garrett eventually unraveled himself from his tightly curled position, feeling shooting through his fingers and legs like blinding painful jolts of lightning. His arms and shoulders were still sore from rowing the boat, but he was able to ignore that sensation. It was nothing worse than a long day spent scrubbing the kitchen in the orphanage.

Garrett stood, the evening wind immediately cutting at him with its chilly bite. His clothes were still mostly wet, what little of them had dried was now hardened and crusty with salt.

He had to get new clothes. It was the only thought he could keep in his mind without being subject to the swarming doubts that lurked just beyond that iron door he had constructed to keep them at bay.

Get dry, get warm, _survive_.

 Garrett crept out from the alcove he had found shelter in, senses keen and open to any sound of a boot fall or shadow of a man. He was still in Eelbiter territory and if any of the sailors on that trading vessel got a description of him and were looking for him… Garrett did not want to know what they would do to him if he somehow fell into their clutches.

Staying only in the deep shadows, Garrett continued north away from the docks. The further he got from that place the better. Through the twisted maze of streets he ventured until he came to a canal, a waterfall flowing through a grate at one end. Even with this source of water, the stench rising from the canal was enough to make Garrett swoon. Another wave of chills overcame him and he pressed on, determined. A quick glance above revealed a clothesline drooped with the heavy weight of the clothes it bore. The problem was it was almost two stories up.

It was the first clothesline that Garrett had seen and the chill from the night and from his wet clothes was tugging at his irritability. With that came a stubborn determination, lighting a fire in him that he thought had been quenched long before. He could only rely on himself, but that did not mean he was powerless. Garrett opened his mind, taking in the whole view before him instead of just the goal. A tall set of rickety shelves that before were an impassible wall then became a stepping stool, the beams crossing overhead not structural but a highway on which he could walk.

The first step was getting on top of that wooden shelving. At first glance it looked easy, but as he approached they towered before him. Using it as a ladder did not seem doable. Steeling his resolve, Garrett glanced about for anything he could possibly use to his advantage. The railing. If he stood on that, he would be able to reach the top of the shelving. The canal was far below on the other side of the railing but Garrett did not let that stop him.

With fingers still trembling from cold, Garrett pulled himself atop the railing. It held beneath his bare feet. With that bit of confidence, he moved on to step two: getting on top of the shelving. The top had a flat surface but enough room between the wooden slats to wedge his fingers. With a leap he caught one of the boards, immediately regretting the action as it left his feet without purchase. He scrambled for a hold, feet churning the air just as wildly as they had in the water. His fingers were slipping. Panic gripped in his throat as he tried to lift himself with just his arms, unable to move even a hand’s breadth. His sore shoulders gripped in a painful pinch as he just hung down, let alone when he tried to pull himself up.

Even with his mind running wild, he heard the subtle scuff of a boot . It was not much, but it echoed all across the canal. Garrett froze, every sense shockingly alive and alert. He could see nothing but the wooden structure he hung from, but he heard the boot falls on the cobblestone below. They were heavy and after each one, a metallic clink. Garrett had heard that before from the Eelbiters who carried crossbows.

If it truly was an Eelbiter out on patrol, Garrett had to be careful. As it was, there was not much he could do but remain as still as possible until the Eelbiter departed. It was a simple notion, but his fingers were already burning from the strain of holding his weight, the rough wood cutting into his skin. His arms were still sore from rowing and he was tiring fast. Garrett tried shifting his grip just slightly and a sharp pain on the side of his right hand brought sudden tears to his eyes. He blinked the tears away, biting his tongue to stifle any gasp that threatened to emerge.

It seemed a lifetime that the footsteps wandered about the cobblestones and an eternity that they stood still, the man presumably pausing his route to look at the stagnant water below. Garrett took to breathing in short gasps and releasing hisses through gritted teeth, his whole body trembling not from cold but fatigue. More than once Garrett thought to release his grip, not caring about where he might fall. These thoughts were immediately replaced by the knowledge that if he let go, his wedged fingers would snap from the weight of his body falling if he did not remove them quick enough. He could barely feel his arms at all, let alone his fingers. Letting go was not an option.

After what felt like half of the night, the Eelbiter made a slow retreat. In reality, it had not even been a quarter hour. As soon as Garrett could not discern those heavy boot falls, he redoubled his efforts to find a foothold on something. His shin caught something, sending a jolt of pain up his leg. He welcomed the discovery, painful as it was. As soon as he found the top shelf of the wooden structure, he pressed his feet against it, heaving himself up with all his might. Once he got a knee up onto the top platform, he hoisted the rest of himself on top and collapsed onto it, chest heaving with choked breaths. Garrett cringed as the feeling returned to his arms and hands in a wave of pin-pricks, every inch of his skin feeling as though it were on fire. That sensation quickly passed. Removing his hands from where he had wedged them the handhold was another matter entirely. A splinter had lodged itself into the side of his right hand, still securely attached to the board from whence it came. Garrett braced himself and with one swift move tore his hands free. He stifled the cry before it came, biting his tongue and tasting blood.

Garrett collapsed onto his side once more, cradling his hands to his chest. The saltwater clinging to his shirt stung the raw skin, renewing the tears in his eyes. A swift breeze cut through him, renewing his vigor. Garrett gritted his teeth and pressed himself into a crouch. He needed those dry clothes. He needed to move.

Step three was getting onto the beam that spanned the length of the canal. With his arms aching and still shaking, he hoisted himself up and onto the broad wooden beam, securing his legs around it. It took some doing, but he crept a few feet forward, clutching the beam as tight as his fatigued muscles allowed. Just a little further and he would reach the lofty wooden walkway. Before he knew it, his palms rested on the comparatively spacious walkway. He quickly crawled onto the platform, very much aware of the gaps between the boards and how far down the water in the canal was.

Garrett steadied himself and stood, staying to the middle of the walkway as best he could. He glanced upward, the clothesline closer but still out of reach. Step four was finding a way to get higher up. Garrett found the means just to the right of a door with a sign declaring it the location of a moneylender. It seemed a terribly inconvenient place to have a door.

Despite himself, Garrett felt a self-satisfied smirk overcome him.

_Can’t get much business up here._

He shook the thought from his head, focusing on his task. There was a crate before him to the right of the door. Some heavy-looking sacks were haphazardly stacked atop it, but they did not shift when Garrett stepped on them. He reached up and over, fingertips barely brushing the hanging cloth. More determined than ever, Garrett took hold of the moneylender sign and leaned further forward, finally getting a handful of his prize. With a great tug that almost set him tumbling down, Garrett freed the shirt from the line above. It was larger than the shirt he wore and of a thinner material, but he had to make it work. The next task was getting the pants hanging just out of reach.

Garrett again analyzed what tools he had at his disposal. It was not much, just the crate and the few sacks atop it. If he could just jump from the crate, he could grab the clothing. The only thing was he had to make sure he landed back on the walkway. What did it matter anyway? What did he have to lose?

He set his jaw and climbed back on the crate. Before he could talk himself out of such a crazy stunt, Garrett readied himself and leapt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *"Tubthumping" by Chumbawamba plays in the background*


	9. Chapter 9

The briefest moment he was in the air seemed to carry on, the world around him stopping just so he could feel the air whisking by him, whistling in his ears. His outstretched hand before him met rough spun cloth and he balled it in his fist, never minding how his raw skin sent sharp waves of pain through his hand as he clenched tight.

As slow as the motions in the air had been, as soon as his feet found something solid the world made up for lost time tenfold. One second he was flying in the air and the next he felt his foot slip out from under him as he came to a crashing finish. Almost losing his grip on the hard-earned clothing, Garrett scrambled to break his fall, knowing full well the drop that was mere inches away from him. He rolled once before he stopped himself, one leg already over the edge.

Garrett lay there, outstretched on the wooden walkway, eyes wide with the shock of finding himself alive. For seemingly the first time, he found himself looking up at the stars. He gasped, unsure if it was just the air returning to his lungs after being knocked from them, or purely a reaction to seeing the window to the stars up beyond the confines of the buildings of The City.

His gaze eventually shifted to the moneylender’s sign and he felt his hand griping rough spun fabric.

_Looks like you’ll be lending more than money tonight_.

The thought came to mind and Garrett felt his lips pull into a smile. It was startling to find himself so mirthful. He could not remember the last time he felt that way, even in the fleeting way he experienced it then. For that briefest moment, everything was okay.

But nothing was okay. Nothing would ever be okay. If Garrett had learned anything in his short life, that was it. The feeling of elation was quickly smothered by the shadow of memory always lurking beyond that iron door of his own making. He had a task to complete and it was only half done.

Garrett pulled himself up and set about stripping the crusty and damp clothes off. The chilly air struck his bare skin, but that was quickly remedied by his new shirt. The sleeves ran well past his hands so he rolled them to a usable length. The pants were another matter entirely. He could fit three of himself easily in them. Thankfully they were already short. On a grown man they would stop just below the knee, but on Garrett the hem just brushed his toes. After some digging behind the crate he had stood upon, Garrett retrieved a piece of rope and fastened it about his waist to keep his new pants secure.

The shirt was stained in various places and white, the pants faded beige. Not good colors for hiding in shadows but they would have to do. His old clothes he tossed over the side of the walkway with as little remorse as he had when he left the orphanage. They were the last reminder of that wretched place and Garrett was glad to be rid of it.

Garrett was his own person. He made his own way in the world. No one would tell him what to do. He was free.

High above, a light flickered to life beyond a closed window, the muffled bumps of someone moving within immediately catching Garrett’s attention. Time to leave.

The same way he had  climbed up, Garrett climbed down. It was easier on his muscles getting down but his injured hands protested the whole way. Garrett chided himself for not inspecting the damage that had been done. It would have to wait. The door of the moneylender was creaking open, a bright beam of light escaping from the crack.

Just as Garrett’s bare feet struck the cool cobblestone street, there was a cry of dismay from high above. “What- thief! I’ve been robbed!”

Garrett slipped into the shadows alongside the canal and struck off for the wooden gate leading north to Stonemarket. He tugged at the heavy door, surprised to find it open. He squeezed himself through the narrow opening just as the moneylender’s cries brought a torrent of men out on watch.

Had the gate been locked, Garrett would have been trapped. It was that moment that Garrett knew that he was only as free as The City allowed.

\---

It was nearing dawn by the time the great crumbling chapel came into view. The torch hanging on the wall was guttering, the braziers containing only glowing red coals. Garrett discerned a few shaded figures here and there, some standing and others crouching.

As soon as his bare feet stepped atop the spongy soil, a deep sense of loss overcame him. He had failed. When he set out from this place he had one goal in mind: to find Matt. Beyond that there was nothing. He had failed in that, just as he had failed the brief job he had at the docks, just as he had failed getting out of the orphanage with his only friend, just as he had failed saving his parents.

Every step forward he felt heavier, exhaustion taking its toll alongside the despair. His fingers still stung and the gash in his hand where the splinter had pierced him was throbbing. The sleeves on his new shirt were slipping out of their roll, drooping down to his wrists. He did not even bother rolling them again, simply shoving them up his arms in a futile battle to make them stay put. It did not quite matter anyhow.

Garrett stepped between the benches, a few of them being used as beds. One man had his head bent in prayer, or was he also asleep?

Sleep sounded nice. Garrett felt as if he could sleep for a week after the ordeal at the docks. His arms ached from rowing, from climbing and from hanging out of sight from the Eelbiter. He just needed sleep. Then he could go out looking for Matt again.

As if that thought was caught from the air, a voice emerged from the shadows off to his right. “He was a good friend, wasn’t he?” Garrett steadied himself, calming his suddenly racing heart.

“He still is.” This he was adamant about. Matt had to be.

The Queen of Beggars softened her voice, drawing closer to him with a slow limp, the coats draped about her sweeping and making her seem a phantom. This set him on edge, but even more so did her words. “Young Garrett, even you know he is no more.”

Garrett’s throat clenched up. He was not entirely sure if it was in anger or sadness. He did not give himself time to analyze it. He darted to the left and took another sharp left; what he thought would be a side path alongside the chapel was blocked by piles of stone bricks and broken down scaffolding. Not giving a care and too tired to retrace his steps and chance facing that old woman again, Garrett tucked himself away in the rubble. He brought his knees to his chest, a deep hot fire coursing through him.

How dare she? She did not know anything. Matt was alive. He had to be. Garrett was going to find him and they would survive together. It had always been the plan.

His boiling thoughts were interrupted before he could truly sink into them. It was that voice again, that wretched old woman coming to tell him that yet another person in his life was gone and would never return. What else could she take away from him? There was no one else. He was alone in the world. At least he could not get hurt if he was alone.

“I saw what you did today, young Garrett.”

“You saw…?” His voice sounded stony in his ears, broken. Each word was a struggle to get out through his clenched throat that burned and rasped.

The Queen of Beggars continued. “My rats have keen eyes. You have skills that any one of my rats would die to have. Some of them do die attempting what you did.”

Garrett did not look up at her, instead looking at the dirt between his toes. After a moment he replied bitterly. “Swimming?”

That old woman. She had the gall to give his response an amused soft laugh. “Those clothes are a bit large on you, but you may still grow into them if you live long enough. Keep climbing. There are some who do well scurrying around on the streets, but I think your strength lies above that.”

Not knowing how to respond and not having the energy to even if he wanted to, Garrett pressed his forehead to his knees. He wanted her to go away. He wanted the world to go away and leave him to rest.

Unfortunately he was not so lucky. “Will you not eat? It is just now dawn and you have not yet dined today.” Garrett did not respond, an uneasy feeling spreading through him. How did she know all of this? The Queen of Beggars continued. “To climb you need to grow. To grow you need to eat.”

Garrett noticed for the first time that his stomach was woefully empty. He almost felt sick with hunger. It was a familiar sensation. When Garrett looked up, the old woman had gone as silently as she had approached. He unfolded himself, stiff muscles complaining as he stood. He ventured out of the hole he had found and entered the high walls of the chapel. The occupants were stirring, a woman holding an enormous basket under one arm approached each person in turn. They all took something from within and offered a quiet thanks. Garrett froze when the woman approached him, the need to flee crawling over his skin. He bit back that instinct as the woman held the basket out for him. Within, a mound of small bread loaves rested. They were not nearly as beautiful as the display Garrett had seen in the bakery; many were scorched in spots and some had spots of green fuzz. He chose one with the least amount of burn, avoiding those that had mold.

The woman swept away before he could offer his thanks, not that he felt an inclination to. With bread in hand, Garrett retreated to his newfound spot along the outside of the chapel. The bread was dry, the burnt corner leaving a bitter taste in his mouth but he ate it all the same. Just as the first rays of light spilled over the rooftops, Garrett closed his eyes.

Perhaps this time when he woke the nightmare would end and everything would be okay.

\---

As much as Garrett had wished for things to be okay, it was not so. Two weeks passed as he lived in the shadow of the chapel, taking what food was offered him. His hands had healed and he had eventually stopped dreaming of the crushing, swirling water consuming him every night.

What had not changed was the hollowness in his chest when his thoughts turned to his friend. For so long Garrett had hoped to find Matt, to return to some semblance of normalcy. He had longed to hear the older boy’s rambling voice, to have a companion he could conspire with. No. It had all been for nothing. All that planning, all that hopeful thinking. Matt had been crushed by those crates only a short time after he had begun work. Matt had been dead for a year and Garrett berated himself for ever thinking otherwise.

One evening brought Garrett to recall Greer informing him of that “blond kid” who had been killed on the docks. It was how he said it that caught him. He had spoken as though it was a shock that Garrett had not heard the story before. That brought on a whole new line of thought.

Everyone on the docks knew about the incident. Garrett had been asking after Matt using his name. No one on the docks had known his name, or if they had it was not important enough to recall. Matt’s legacy was the blond kid who was killed, his story told only for shock and awe.

They had not known his name. Matt had died a nameless orphan.

It was unfair, it was life. While Garrett lived, those around him died. How he had ever thought otherwise was beyond him. Why had he even bothered holding onto that hope that he would find Matt? When had his life ever gone well? Was Matt’s fate to be Garrett’s as well?

There were moments in those two weeks where the despair was too much and he slept the night and day away. Guilt had also plagued him, often striking after a night and day of sleep and keeping him awake for another full cycle with its crawling, unsettling sensations.

For all of his suffering, Garrett only discovered one bit of truth in the madness: he was alone and he would remain alone. If he did not grow attached to anyone, they would not be able to hurt him when they inevitably left. It was the best way Garrett knew to survive: to avoid pain. Thus far he had failed.

His hands had healed, but he felt broken. A phantom, a burden.

This idea was only reinforced by the conversation Garrett happened to catch early one evening. He was just waking from his day of sleep and two voices caught his attention.

“Kid gets all the food he wants and does he pay his dues?” It was one of the beggars, the man’s voice vaguely familiar. What was familiar was his tone of distain, Garrett recalling how he had been complaining a few days previously.

“We all work for our way here. Have you seen him do anything other than take?” That was a woman’s voice, the same one who brought baskets of reject bread from the bakery.

The first beggar grumbled. “Can’t say I have.”

“Why does the Queen of Beggars allow him in her court? We all pay for our place.”

Garrett listened on. He rarely left his nook on the side of the chapel and voices echoed up the high crumbling walls. They knew he was there. They wanted him to hear. They wanted him to know he was not welcome. Garrett would not be welcome anywhere. He did not even want to be a member of the court and they obviously did not want him.

That was when Garrett made the decision. It was time to move on. All Garrett had to do was find out just where he would move to and how he would survive there.

He blocked out the two beggars further discussing him, running through all that he had at his disposal. It was not much in terms of possessions, just the stolen clothes on his back. What he did have was his mind. A few days previous Garrett had overheard a few of the beggars discussing someone they called Madam Xiao Xiao. What exact business she ran was beyond Garrett and the beggars had not mentioned specifics, only that she gathered information. Still, it was worth looking into. His only other option would be to join the Eelbiters gang and that was much less appealing than working for a business that collected information. Just with his few observations while he was on the docks Garrett knew he did not want to join their ranks. He would not take orders, much less so than from a group of thugs.

Putting the overheard conversation behind him, Garrett waited to hear more about this Madam Xiao Xiao. His patience paid off as three nights later, he heard one beggar mention her name.

“Did you see that woman come through here?”

“Woman? You mean Madam Xiao Xiao? She has come for tea with the Queen of Beggars.” Garrett crept closer to the conversing beggars, not entirely sure why he was being silent in his approach. It did not seem like a private conversation but all the same he remained in the shadows. He knew he was no longer welcome in the chapel, at least not by some.

“Oh so that was _her_. I haven’t seen her before. She’s… not what I was expecting.” The halting tone made Garrett creep closer, needing to see the look on the beggar’s face as she spoke. As soon as he did, there was a jolt of uncertainty that ran through him. What was that look? Uncertainty? Disgust? What kind of person was this Madam Xiao Xiao? Was she to be feared?

“Don’t be like that. The Queen of Beggars holds her in the highest of esteem and she provides valuable information about the deep politics that run through The City. She is a valuable visitor and you would do well to steer clear. The Madam does not like being disturbed.”

“And how do you know this? Have you met her before?” Was that… jealousy?

“No, no! I’ve only been acquainted with a few of the petals when I used to go around the red lantern district to beg. Nothing of the sort you are thinking. I’ve never had the coin for such things.”

Petals, red lanterns… Garrett knew he had a lot to learn about The City still. Sitting in the alcove he had come to tentatively call home was doing little for building up his stores of information. Before he could think upon this more, the beggars continued.

“Well the Madam is in there now with the Queen. Best not be around when Xiao Xiao comes out. She’ll want to be undisturbed.”

Garrett did not see a point in letting someone go undisturbed when he wanted information. He was already unwanted here, what was the worst that could happen? So he waited in the shadows outside the entrance to the inner chamber of the Chapel. It was well into the night when the iron gate finally opened. The person who emerged was not entirely what Garrett had imagined and he knew then why the beggar had sounded so off-put.

Madam Xiao Xiao wore the finest silks with intricate patterns laced all about, fancy shoes that were not caked in mud. She was a person of high society, then. Then why was she here? Garrett scrutinized her appearance as she walked with a trained sway of her hips, exaggerating what little of them she had. Her head was held high, the short cut of her hair an attempt to hide the squareness of her jaw.

This was the esteemed Madam Xiao Xiao? Garrett put his judgments to the side and slipped out of the shadow behind her.

“Madam Xiao Xiao?” Even his voice seemed meek and he hated himself for sounding so.

The woman spun elegantly on her heel, despite the softness of the dirt under her. She almost seemed to float with the motion. Her voice floated as well, but carried distain. Garrett did not know if that distain was just for him or for the world in general. “What do you want?”

Garrett steeled himself. “Can’t I work at the House of Blossoms?”

The sneer that overcame the woman’s heavily powdered face was unbecoming, her smooth voice nasally and cross. “The only semblance to a petal a boy can be is the thorn of a thistle.”

“But aren’t you a boy?” The observation came unbidden to Garrett’s lips and he immediately regretted those words.

The change that came over Madam Xiao Xiao was instantaneous and ferocious. She seemed to grow two feet, what were flowers that bloomed in her aura turned to thorns - appropriate for the observation she had made about boys being thorns. But she was no thistle. This was a fully bloomed rose and her thorns were unabashedly uncovered and laid out for all to see. “You dare? Get out of my way, urchin. Never approach me again.” The words were shrill, a thin knife scraping as they shot out at the unwilling recipient.

Not standing down but knowing he should have long before, Garrett continued. “But what will I do?”

Madam Xiao Xiao did not back down, her shrill tone dropping to a low and dangerous growl. Garrett understood then why the beggars steered clear of her. “If you keep asking questions like that to people who you insult, you won’t get far. Someone might just tell you to go die in the gutter. If you are as naïve as you sound, you might actually follow that order. Now leave me.”

There was a threat in that order and Garrett knew that if he did not heed the warning, his future would be much less bright. Not that it was ever bright to begin with. So he let Madam Xiao Xiao depart, his mind scrambling for further ideas. He had to survive, that much he knew. But _how_ remained the unanswered question.


	10. Chapter 10

The answer to his survival that Garrett sought came rather more quickly than he was anticipating. As soon as Madam Xiao Xiao disappeared behind the corner, a voice came from behind him. Startled at the sudden and rather unanticipated approach, Garrett turned on his heel, his heart leaping into his throat. The Queen of Beggars still had that eerie effect on him, always putting him on edge.

“You paid Madam Xiao Xiao a great insult.” It was a statement of fact, the old woman walking up and into the broken outer chapel, not needing an escort in such familiar territory. Garrett wondered if she could still see, though her eyes were completely frosted over. From her comments that she had made and other observations, Garrett was not entirely sure if she saw with her eyes or by other means.

Garrett was bitter in his response, forcing his racing heart to still. “Yeah?”

The old woman turned, the corner of her mouth slightly downturned. Was she… disappointed? “Best you stay clear of any red lanterns, young Garrett. The path she would lead you down is not one for someone such as yourself.” Disappointed not only in his choice of seeking professions but also in how he went about asking for it. He had done wrong and had ultimately closed a door that might otherwise had led to a different future. What future that was, Garrett was still unsure.

“I’ll find my own way.” In this statement, he was steadfast.

There was a glimmer in the Queen of Beggar’s cloudy eyes that Garrett could not quite identify, her face a mask that he could not read. This more than anything put him on edge. “Stonemarket is ripe for the picking, but Auldale with all its riches and splendor is a thorny trap wrapped in silks and spun gold. Tread lightly where riches glimmer in plain sight.”

Garrett stared at the old woman dubiously. Did she always have to talk with such riddles? He did not respond to her, simply walking out of the chapel and beyond the warm glowing light it offered. He was part of the shadows of the city once more, a phantom that had little to live for and no discernible future.

What had the old woman said? Stonemarket was ripe? Garrett shook the thought from his head. He had spent too long locked away in that chapel and he needed to get out. The beggars were right. He had been living off of them without giving back for too long. There had to be something that he could do, something that would mark his place in The City and give him something to live for.

Garrett made his way through the winding alleyway, past the huge brazier that always blazed with beggars surrounding. They paid him no heed as he slipped by, barely feeling the heat of the fire as he passed. Garrett stayed to the shadows, his bare feet hardly making a sound on the worn cobblestone. It had been dry for quite a while now so there were no puddles to avoid. Summer was coming on, he figured. That meant muggy weather during the day and warmer nights.

He tugged up his stolen pants, automatically tightening the rope that held them up. It was then that a thought struck him. Garrett had climbed all that way to get to the clothes. He had not been caught in doing so, only drawing attention after he was safely away.

The Queen of Beggars’ words finally made sense. To climb he had to grow, to grow he had to eat. He had to climb to get to places previously inaccessible. Stonemarket was ripe for the picking. He could gorge himself on the riches available in Stonemarket if he was able to climb up to those lofty places, and only then could he grow in skill, grow to fill his place in The City. The old woman’s words made so much sense. It was that burst of clarity that carried Garrett past the Crippled Burrick and into the Clock Tower Plaza.

He had to find a way to climb up. There were windows high above that he was certain were not locked. Who would bother to lock an upper story window? Careful to avoid the wandering gaze of the single member of The Watch strolling about, Garrett slipped to his left into the shadows. He continued up until he came to a narrow alleyway that ended in an abrupt wall. Not stopping or getting discouraged, Garrett looked about for a way up. Surprised, he found a tall crate that led up to a windowsill high above. It took some doing but he eventually was able to hoist himself up. This was much easier than he had anticipated, though his only comparison was the climb he had taken to retrieve the clothes he still wore. He had been sore, tired and unfathomably hungry during that event.

This time he was well rested - almost too much so - and he had been getting a steady meal sometimes twice a day. He felt stronger than he had in a long time; as strong as he had felt before Matt had been taken from the orphanage. Garrett shoved that thought from his mind. It was over and done with, a mistake in the past to be forgotten.

He reached the windowsill, surprised to find a wooden beam stretching from one side to the other of the street. Wary of how narrow it was, Garrett got on his stomach and shimmied across with his legs securely wrapped around it. Safely on the other side, Garrett looked back to see how far he had come. It was not far distance-wise but he certainly was high up. Garrett looked down to the plaza, the Watchman now making his way to the entrance of the street just below him. Garrett’s heart leapt in his chest and he pressed himself to the wall, but the Watchman did not even look up.

So they were blind to what occurred above them. It was an important piece of information that Garrett tucked away. He turned away from the Watchman, set on the upper story of the house before him and determined to see what treasures ripe for the picking the Queen of Beggars had told him about. The first window he came to was locked. Determined, Garrett moved on to the next. He heaved upwards on the worn wood, using all his strength and hoping he did not break the frame. With much effort, it moved ever so slightly. The resounding scrape seemed to echo all around the street and Garrett froze, though never letting go of the window. No use in losing what little ground he had gained.

When he heard no one approach or call out, he redoubled his efforts. After the initial movement, the window slid easily upwards. Garrett locked it into place, not wanting it to come crashing down while he was inside. Sliding in was an easy matter, Garrett by far used to climbing into small spaces. What he found within looked to almost be abandoned. White sheets covered pieces of furniture and dust rose as he stepped on the hardwood floors. The only light came through the two windows, a cool almost haunting light from the moon that reminded Garrett all too much of-

No. He could not think back to that night, when all the horrors began. He had to keep moving forward.

On light feet, Garrett stepped to what appeared to be a dresser draped with a moth-eaten cloth. He swept the cloth to the side just enough so he could see what it concealed. It was a finely constructed dresser, glass doors revealing very sparsely filled shelves. Not even bothering to open the doors, Garrett moved on to the drawers below. Even those contained nothing. Discouraged but not overly so, he continued his search. On the opposite side of the room there was a desk. It was not covered - no it had been. The sheet that had once covered it stood in a heap off to the side. It had been moved recently, as the surface of the desk had only a very thin film of dust atop it.

Not pausing, Garrett went and opened the first drawer. Only a few papers were scattered about inside. The next had a pen that Garrett took and tucked into his makeshift belt. On the opposite side of the desk, the two drawers contained little more than scraps of paper and rat droppings. Garrett was about to step away when something glinted out of the corner of his eye. He stooped to look under the desk and sure enough, a golden goblet lay on its side.

Garrett quickly took it in his hand. It was plain and covered in dust but it was no doubt worth something. This too he tucked into his belt, making a mental note to himself to bring a sack or to make a deep pocket in which to keep the things he stole.

There was a tall object leaning against the far wall, its square edges all that Garrett could discern as it was also covered with a sheet. He pulled the drape aside and tucked it up, the sudden cloud of dust catching in his nose. Garrett tried his best to stifle the sneeze and was only partially successful. When he looked back up, a portrait stood before him. It was just his size and the figure depicted took up the whole frame.

The boy staring back at him was pitiful, with clothes that hung off him like rags. Dirt clung to every part of him, smeared across his face. His hair was little better, hanging to his cheeks and in unkempt disarray. What struck him most were the eyes. They were so hollow, more sunken and broken than the beggar he passed by every day who stared up at him with eyes that had seen too much misery for one life.

Garrett scowled and the image scowled back. A jolt of panic lanced through him and he jumped back, looking on as the boy in the portrait did the same. Something gripped Garrett’s chest and he could not identify the feeling. This was not him. It could not possibly be him. He was stronger than the little broken boy in the portrait- no it was a mirror he now knew. Perhaps he had known that all along and could not come to terms with it. That boy in the mirror could not survive a single day more, but Garrett knew that he himself could. It was a horror, this sunken boy. He looked so lost, so fractured.

Garrett could bear it no more. With a swift tug, he let the sheet fall back over the face of the mirror. Shaken, he turned to look for more furniture. Just as he did so, there was a resounding thud from below. Time to go. Just as he made for the window, he spotted a book lying on the ground. He scooped it up just as there was a rattle on the doorknob.

He was out the window and closing it before he knew it, the rush of fear coursing through him. If he were caught, what would they do to him? Send him back to the orphanage? To prison? Garrett had no desire to find out.

Back outside, Garrett crept along the beam crossing the street in the same manner as before, though being careful to not jostle the loot from his belt. It would not do to have the Watchman have a golden goblet dropped on his head; he might actually start looking up. The book was trickier to have a hold of, but he somehow managed.

Not wanting to press his luck, Garrett returned to the street the same way he had climbed. Avoiding the Watchman’s gaze, Garrett stole behind the Crippled Burrick. There were a number of patrons far into their drink stumbling about but Garrett quickly slipped by them. Before he knew it, the crumbling chapel stood before him, the braziers within making it glow, beams of flickering light spreading out like arms welcoming him home.

Garrett scowled at it. This was not home. Nowhere was home anymore. At least the residents of the court could not now chide him for his lack of contribution. His presence appeared to turn no heads as he walked down the center isle towards the stairs.

There he saw the pile of rags and fur that Garrett knew was the Queen of Beggars, her wrinkled face almost blending in with the folds of cloth she was nestled in. It was a familiar sight and he approached her without hesitation.

“You have something to contribute.” It was not a question, but a statement of fact. “Let me see, young Garrett:”

Garrett produced the gold goblet and pen, keeping the book to himself. He had retrieved the book for his own use, not to add to the old woman’s bookshelf. It was selfish he knew but he cared little.

The Queen of Beggars beckoned him closer, thin fingers like claws scraping the air before her. Garrett complied, keeping just as much distance as he could while allowing the old woman to look at his wares. “Just the items will not do. You will need to find someone to sell them to. I believe there is a man just down the way who will purchase items without questioning where they came from.” Garrett waited in silence for further instruction. When he did not get any, he turned away from the old woman with a scowl. Some help she was. Still with trinkets in hand, he struck out of the chapel and down the street. He passed by a number of men crouching on the side of the way or holding their hands to warm by the lit braziers. None paid Garrett any heed.

It seemed a useless quest to find the one man so little described. Still, Garrett pressed on. He was almost to the back door of the Crippled Burrick when a voice beside him made him jump.

“You have something there to sell?” The man’s voice sounded like oil dripping over stone, oozing out from a crevice and Garrett did not want to know where it led.

“Just a cup and a pen,” Garrett said warily, making sure to turn away so his wares were not visible. He had worked hard to get them and he was not going to risk the man stealing them away.

“Well I can’t name a price if you keep them hidden. Give them here.” The man reached a hand out, Garrett eyeing it suspiciously. The fingernails were yellow and chipped, the man’s knuckles knobby. Wary still, Garrett handed him the pen first. It was snatched up, the man brining it under close scrutiny. “Ten gold for this. Not worth much I’m afraid. And the other?” Garrett held out his hand to get the pen back and with an eye roll the man gave it to him. Only then did he relinquish the goblet.

“Hm, hm,” the man hummed to himself, looking first at the outside of the cup and then at the bottom. “This one is worth a bit more. Something like twenty five gold. It was made ‘round the turn of the century.”

“Is that your best price?” Garrett risked a lot getting them and he was not about to get pinched.

The man laughed at him, the sound gravely and Garrett saw a few particles of spittle drip from his bottom lip. Disgusting. “You so keen to get lots of gold for these useless things? I ought to send you along to the next fence to see how they treat you. Take my gold or get lost, kid.” The humor was gone, the man’s dark and beady eyes hardened.

“I’ll take it,” Garrett conceded, albeit reluctantly. He took the few coins the man offered him after giving the man the pen as well.

“You have a book too?” Garrett had almost forgotten about the book he held until the man mentioned it.

“It’s not for sale.”

With that, he swiftly turned on his heel and made his way back to the chapel.

Before he could even walk within the crumbling walls, one of the beggars blocked his path. It was the woman who handed out the rejected bakery bread. On her usually passive face, a scowl now made furrows in her otherwise smooth cheeks. “You finally have a contribution? Well, give it here.”

Garrett scowled right back, holding tightly onto his hard-earned coins until the metal bit into his palms. The image of his reflection in the mirror flashed briefly through his mind, so sunken and helpless. He shook his head. That was not him. He was strong. “I’m not giving it to you.”

“Oh, you’re not?” The woman tossed her head back, scowl turning haughty. “You going to keep it for yourself and rely on everyone to help you again? Let me tell you, kid, we won’t help you for free any longer. You don’t contribute and you are no longer a member of the court.”

“I’m not giving it to you,” Garrett repeated. Not giving the woman a chance to respond, he darted around her. He dodged her grasping hands easily, not looking back as he stole into the chapel. He did not see the Queen of Beggars on the steps so he made his way to the gate leading into the inner chamber. He had only been in there once before and then only briefly.

The large chamber was littered with fine furniture, the lit candles scattered at intervals in the vast space. Why the Queen of Beggars, blind as she was, required so much light Garrett did not know. Garrett found her sitting before a vanity desk, the round mirror long gone missing. He was thankful for that.

“Encountered some trouble, young Garrett?” The Queen of Beggars addressed him without first turning around. He did not respond. She turned and stood with some difficulty. The massive fur coat did not cover how her arms shook with the strain. “She only wishes to help but goes about it in the wrong way.”

“I have coin to pay my dues,” Garrett announced softly, not wanting his voice to echo up the enormously tall walls that ended in vaulted ceilings. The space made him feel too small, too insignificant. At the same time he felt exposed and it was not just from the old woman’s sightless stare. More than anything he wanted to return to the shadows where the walls pressed down on him from all sides, shrouding him from wandering eyes.

“So you have. Bring it here and I will see your donation is put to good use.” This time Garrett did not hesitate handing over his fistful of coins. Just as he dropped them into the old woman’s waiting hand, her other hand gripped his wrist. Garrett’s first instinct was to pull away but for some reason he resisted the temptation. Her grip was strong, unshakable. He was forced to look into the Queen of Beggars’ milky eyes, his chest tightening uncomfortably. “You must know by now that you do not belong in my court. You are welcome to stay for as long as you need; years if necessary. You may partake of food and shelter but only if you contribute as you have tonight. Stay only as long as you need but then you must leave. You must learn to find your own way, young Garrett.”

The breath Garrett had been holding fell from his lungs just as the hand fell from his wrist. None of the old woman’s words were news to him, but he still felt the chilly bite of rejection. It clawed down his spine, adding a new weight to his shoulders. He could not bring himself to utter a sound, fearing it would come out a shaking sob. Garrett was reminded again of the reflection he had seen and he shook it away, steeling himself.

“You proved yourself this night, but it was a huge leap for someone so young.” The Queen of Beggars’ voice shocked Garrett out of his lingering despair. She turned and with precise movements that had Garrett wondering again if she truly was blind, opened a drawer and produced an object. She held it before Garrett, the tarnished steel glinting in the candle light. “Remember, never grab, always cut.”

Garrett took the small curved blade, knowing that the edge of it would quickly slice through even tough leather. With that small gesture, the old woman turned her back and spoke no more. Frustrated, Garrett scowled and left the inner chapel. What had she meant? Cut what?

He was careful to avoid the woman who had confronted him before as he made his way back to his claimed nook. It was adorned with a curtain that was more holes than fabric. He swept it aside and sat on the cleared ground. The small knife he stored off to the side for whatever future use it had. By the light of the brazier flickering through a crack in the wall, Garrett made out the printed words of the book he had stolen. He squinted, the low light making reading difficult. His eyes eventually adjusted and the shapes began forming letters, those letters words until whole paragraphs stringed together. It was a tome of the maritime history of The City, Garrett came to discover. Eagerly, he read until light peaked over the high wall of the chapel, until his eyes could stay open no longer.

For seemingly the first time, Garrett dreamed about The City; what its past had been, what people had been crucial in helping it be a metropolis of naval trade, and what treasures he might find from that distant past tucked away in some old forgotten cupboard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone catch the reference to the comics? ;)


	11. Chapter 11

Garrett secured the dark cloth covering his head and shoulders, double checking his pocket for the lock picks that were so familiar in his hands they were almost an extension of his fingers. They had been somewhat of a farewell gift from the Queen of Beggars. He took one last sweeping look around the abandoned storage room he had tentatively called home for two years. The chapel had served as his home for three years before then, but it had been high time to depart there when he stumbled upon the abandoned room on one of his many expeditions about The City.

The storage room was tiny, made even smaller by the hay-stuffed mattress Garrett had shoved in, its size so immense compared to the room that the edges bent up the walls, creating a ‘U’ shaped space in which Garrett slept. What was left of the floor space was covered in stacks of books interspersed with half-melted candles and other odds and ends that Garrett had picked up. It was not much, but it was home and he felt relatively safe. At least as safe as he could ever feel.

Garrett opened the door, greeted by the familiar and overpowering heavy smell of the sewer far below. Every time he stepped outside he was reminded just why the room had been abandoned in the first place. He closed the door behind him and set out for yet another nighttime city run. He did not bother checking the storage room to his right, accessible by a low vent. There was rarely anything more than fishing supplies stored there. He swiftly made his way east to South Quarter and north to Stonemarket.

It had taken a while and much studying, but Garrett had eventually found ways to traverse The City without hardly ever touching the ground. He had not had a run-in with a Watchman in months, thanks to the so-called Thief’s Highway. As soon as he reached Blackfurrow he made for the rooftops. He had not scoured the area around the obelisk for a number of months and it was high time for him to peek in once again.

With the clock tower presiding over, Garrett made his way to the first window he could find. The window directly to his right led to an attic. He had taken two books from there the last time he visited. This time he was in search of items he could sell for coin. He was doubtful he could even fit any more books in his cramped home anyhow. Garrett was not let down. In an old dusty dresser he found a gilded pen and a letter opener. He tossed them both in the sack he carried over his shoulder. After a quick sweep, he found nothing else and moved on. He passed by the chimneys spewing black smoke into the even darker night and on to the next apartment.

He came to a balcony overlooking the obelisk and found a door that he had previously not noticed. Automatically Garrett found his lock picks in his hands and he went to work. It was almost a comfort by then, feeling for just the right position and hearing the satisfying click as each pin found its way home. The clock tower’s booming bell struck two just as the handle loosened. Garrett pressed his way in, finding a small room with only a desk and a tall wardrobe.

_Nice things sometimes come in small packages._ Garrett thought to himself. _Let’s see if that applies to apartments as well_.

Garrett stepped lightly to the desk and pulled open the first drawer. Empty. The second drawer was also devoid of anything worthy of stealing.

_Maybe I need to look in a larger package_.

He turned to the wardrobe. A pull at the door revealed that it was locked. Always a good sign. A few swift turns of his lock picks and the doors swung open. Two silver goblets stared down at him. He had to stand on his toes to retrieve them from the top shelf, but soon they were securely in the sack.

All that was left in the cupboard was some folded linens. The drawer below proved to be much more profitable. Upon first glance, it was empty but upon further inspection Garrett noticed it did not appear deep enough for the size of the drawer. He pushed on it and the wooden panel moved. A false bottom.

Garrett smirked. _Trying to protect your assets. Let’s see if you’re as endowed as you think you are_.

He shifted the panel upward and revealed a long box. This he pulled out, surprised at how heavy it was. It was not even locked. As soon as he opened it, what little moonlight there was glinted off of the silver held within. Even slightly tarnished, the silverware would fetch a hefty price.

That was when Garrett came across his next dilemma. The box was too big for his bag. He did the only thing he thought would work: he took a handful of silverware and shoved it in, cringing at the loud clamor. He had to do this quick and get out of there before-

A hand clamped down on his shoulder, the other gripping his arm.

Garrett ducked and spun, but the grip was unrelenting. The dark cloth covering his head and shoulders was pulled off, the sudden chill of night creeping across his exposed neck. Vulnerable. He was vulnerable. This lit a fire in him. He needed to escape. It was a wild, animalistic urge that he had little control over. He wrenched his arm free and lashed out, noticing only at the last moment that in his fist glinted a silver knife.

A muffled grunt.

A gurgle.

Something warm spattered on Garrett’s face, flowed over his hand. He stared at the man stooping over him, frozen in place even as the man lost his grip on him. That moment seemed to stretch into eternity, Garrett memorizing every detail he saw. The white haired man gazing down at him with those wide brown eyes almost hidden by a heavy brow topped with a shock of white eyebrows. His face was narrow, wrinkles making his skin look like it was dripping off his jaw. His short scruff of a beard was pure white- no. It was spattered with red now.

Endless red.

It cascaded down his front, the deep gash in his neck ragged and dark.

Garrett could only watch in petrified horror as the man took in a ragged, wet breath. The breath he released was barely a gurgle and Garrett was once again spattered with warm blood. Every hair on his body seemed to stand on end, static coursing through him and yet he still could not move. Still could not take his eyes off of those dulling brown eyes, that endless torrent of red, red, red.

One by one his senses blazed back to life. The first was the smell. It hung heavy about him, clinging, suffocating and thick and metallic and hot. Next was his sense of touch. The knife in his hand was slippery but he still kept a firm hold on it. The blood was sticky. He could feel each droplet on his face and neck, quickly cooling and feeling so _wrong_. It itched and he could not shake the feeling of being so utterly soiled that he never could be clean again.

All at once the man dropped to the floor with a sickening thud. More red seeped onto the rough wooden floor, flowed under Garrett’s bare feet. He looked down at the lifeless body, feeling a shiver creep up his spine, spreading through his core and out to his limbs. He felt a scream drawing into his lungs and he choked it down, his heart pounding to burst.

He needed to leave. He needed to get away.

But Garrett could not move.

He no sooner could move than the dead or dying man on the floor could dance. He felt so heavy, the bag still clutched in his hand feeling like the weight of the world and the knife in the other even more so.

Garrett did not know what got him to move. Maybe it was a Watchman far below yelling at a passerby. Maybe it was his own body jostling him into awareness. All he knew was he was startled into motion, bare feet slipping on the tepid blood. He tore out the door, not bothering to close it behind him. He leapt to the rooftop, barely catching himself while still keeping a hold of his sack. The knife was long gone, but the blood still clung to his palm, now sticky and cold.

His foot caught on the edge of the roofing and he tumbled into a fall, rolling painfully over the contents of his sack. He lay there for a while, eyes darting about above him to the sparse stars scattered about the sky, intermittently blotted out by the black smoke rising from the chimneys.

It could not have been real. This was just another one of his nightmares. The blood on his feet was just jam, the man laying dead on the floor had been just a phantom ghosting through his thoughts. It had to be.

But it was not.

He did not know how long he remained there, a wooden plank digging into his back and his arm twisted around behind him. It did not matter. All that mattered was his hoarse breathing and the endless inky black sky before him. The stars winked in and out as if mocking him. Garrett scowled at them. They were not winking. They were not going out. They were as constant and enduring as the pain and suffering of The City. It was just the black smoke wafting out above him, blocking out those pure points of light.

It was not the sky that mocked him then, but The City itself. It blocked out any beauty it could find, smothering it with greasy, black smoke until all that was left was ash.

Ash, a knife in the dark, and blood.

So much blood.

Garrett’s skin crawled and he forced himself to stand up and continued on his way, climbing down to the street and making his way south. Even after his moment of rest, every sense was on fire, his head swirling with the heady stench of metal and gore. His eyes darted around too fast to glimpse anything, vision blurry and too sharp all at once. His skin pricked and more than once he thought he felt hands clasp his arms but they were mere ghosts of a thought.

Garrett ran, not quite knowing where he was heading. When he smelled the stagnant water of the canal through the thick smell of blood, a new need came to the forefront of his mind. He needed to wash. His skin itched with the need to bathe. Garrett did not hesitate to climb down to the water. He tossed the sack aside and with shaking hands pulled his shirt and pants off, the deep red splotches stark against the fabric. He tossed them away into the canal like they were poisoned. He watched them lazily float away in the murky water.

He followed suit, tossing himself in the chilly water. He frantically scrubbed at every inch of skin until he was red and raw and still he scrubbed. His skin crawled, his stomach churned, and his hands shook. Eventually his knees gave in and he sat in the canal, the stagnant water almost reaching his chin. He scrubbed his short hair, scrubbed his face until his cheeks hurt, rubbed his feet against the slimy stone beneath him until he lost his footing and fell in the water.

As he floated in the water, so serene in its cool calm, his thoughts provided a stark contrast. They bombarded him, crashing around in his skull until he ached. It had not been real. Nothing in the world could be that terrible. The red, the stench, the man’s eyes as he stared there dying, disbelieving, in pain and confusion. Through the mental barrage even the fear that always struck him when he submerged in water was a distant thing.

Garrett had not known he was crying until he violently stood and broke the water’s surface, a wail escaping his throat. Once he started he could not stop. The sobs wracked his body in convulsions. He struck the water before him, cursing it for not making him clean enough, for not providing him the solace he so needed. Garrett thrashed about, not caring if he caught the attention of every Watchman and Eelbiter in The City.

He had just _killed a man_.

The thought did not even seem real. It had been a routine break-in. Just one of the regular apartments. It had just been a box of silverware. It would hardly give him enough money to buy food for a week.

The man had just been there at the wrong time. Garrett howled in anger. He should not have snuck up on him, should not have caught him. The man had been foolish to even approach him. It was his fault, not Garrett’s. _His_.

His fault.

It was his fault.

A man was dead because of him. Because of _Garrett_.

He almost did not hear the man yelling at him over his own screams.

“Oi, oi! You want to go to Moira? Get out of there, crazy!”

Garrett was up and out of the canal before the man even finished. Wearing nothing but his soaking underclothes, he stole away with the sack at his back. The sack which held a hefty price for what he had done. The mad dash back to his meager home was a dizzying, blurry venture. He was almost surprised to find his hands shaking uncontrollably as he tried to open the door. Eventually he got it open and he fell inside, closing and locking the door before collapsing on the cramped and bent mattress. It cradled his shaking form, the darkness enveloping him better than any blanket could. The musty smell of old hay, usually so comforting, did little for him then.

A wash of shame overcame him then. He had lost control in the canal, he had been _seen_. It was yet another thing to weigh on his conscience.

A small thought at the back of his mind reminded him that his precious lock picks were still in the pocket of his pants, drifting down the canal.

He shoved the thought from his mind, too exhausted to even think about moving. He had little motivation for seeking out those filthy bloodstained clothes anyhow. Still, the loss of those tools he had come to rely so much on weighed heavy on him, much more so than he expected.

But nothing could compare to the loss of the sliver of humanity that was shorn away that night, just as easily as that table knife had cut through the old man’s thin skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that Garrett has had his Lady Macbeth moment we can all get on with our lives.  
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter and see you on Friday with the next installment!


	12. Chapter 12

He felt hollow, fragmented. Everything was numb. He knew he should eat but nothing could make him move. Time was irrelevant. It was simply dark in his small room and it was the only comfort Garrett had. He felt sick but he did not know if it was from hunger or from the nightmarish memories haunting him.

How many days had it been? Two, three? It did not matter. He drank enough water from the bucket he always kept near to sustain him, but food was beyond him. Garrett felt weak, weaker than he had felt in years.

He was an atrocity. He had done the one thing that he swore to himself he would never do. He did the same thing to that old man as one person had done to his parents. He was wretched, vermin, a killer.

Nothing would ever be right again. It seemed every move he took had led him from bad to worse. Garrett was not sure how much worse it could get. Everything was his fault. If he had only dropped the knife before turning, if he had only been quieter, if he had only stopped to listen before grabbing the silverware, if he had only-

No. There were no other ways. It was done and he had to live with the consequences of his action. Simply living with it was turning out to be almost impossible already.

Garrett gritted his teeth. If he stayed there he would die, but would that be so bad? Immediately he shoved the idea from his mind. Of course it would be bad. He had not struggled to survive up until then just to give up after one misstep. For the first time in days, Garrett felt a fire burn within him. If he moved in small steps with small goals he could do it. Anything else was too overwhelming to comprehend.

He crept out of his bed, knocking over a stack of books in the dark. His skin still crawled as if tepid, sticky blood still clung to him. Garrett grabbed the water bucket and a rag, rubbing his arms, face and every other inch of himself that still felt filthy. Surprisingly enough, the crawling of his skin subsided. Feeling about as clean as he thought he would ever be, Garrett felt for the door and opened it, bright moonlight filtering in. The gentle evening breeze, tainted with the smell of the sewer as it was, was still refreshing after living in that stuffy room for days. The water droplets clinging to his skin chilled, making his hair stand on end. Garrett welcomed the sensation; he had been numb for too long.

Head finally clearing, Garrett decided upon the next steps he would take. He had to get rid of the loot he collected that night, but first he had to find some clothes. Luckily, there was a clothesline hanging just to the right. It was one of his rules to not steal too frequently from those houses so close to his home, but this was a unique situation. He quickly snatched a shirt and pants from the line, surprised to find they fit better than his previous clothes had. Perhaps he was just growing. They still required rolling and a piece of rope to keep the pants around his waist instead of at his ankles, but it was better than trying to find a fence in only his underclothes. Then they might really send him to Moira Asylum.

He deserved it.

Garrett shoved the thought from his mind, angry at himself for even thinking it. No. It had been an accident.

Gathering the sack he had not touched since he had tossed it down when he first returned, Garrett set out once more. The smack of sewage was just as strong as ever as he crept along the rooftop. He made his way south, keeping to the Thief’s Highway as much as he could to avoid the prying eyes of the Eelbiters.

His feet took him further south until the stench of the canal became the muddy stench of the river and the briny bay. The Customs Bridge loomed high with the lighthouse spreading its light just beyond. He saw his destination: that two story building that was little more than a shack standing out on the docks. Siren’s Rest. It had taken Garrett almost two years to return to the docks after his first venture there, but once he did he had found a fence within that tavern that was more reliable than many he had come across.

Slipping past the Eelbiters on watch was hardly difficult, though the lighter clothes he had stolen were harder to conceal in the shadows. Instead he relied on the men’s pattern of patrol and slipped past them on bare feet when they had their backs turned. He eventually found his way onto the wooden docks and from there he approached the tavern.

Inside was just as dank and musty as the rest of the docks, but at least the candles they had lit warded off the mist and gloom that hung all about outside. Garrett hefted the bag over his shoulder and slipped past the few patrons to the back corner where the fence always dwelled. Tonight was no different. The man in the dented hat tipped it in greeting, his pockmarked cheeks spreading to make way for a welcoming grin. Garrett had not bothered to ask the man for his name and had not given his in return. It was simply a business exchange with clear boundaries and the fence respected that.

“What have you for me today?”

Garrett took the bag off of his shoulder and spread the contents onto a wooden crate between them. The fence peered down at it, picking up the gilded pen for a moment before shuffling through the haphazard silverware. The fence did not look all that impressed.

“It’s not a complete set. Can’t do much except melt it down without all the pieces. Where is the rest?” He meant well by his question, but it struck Garrett.

He could feel himself shut down, shrink back into himself. He shut that iron door in his mind and steeled himself for the answer, hoping his shaking voice would not give him away. “That’s all I have. How much can you give me?”

The fence shrugged, his answer gruff. “Oh, not much for the silverware but that pen could fetch a pretty price. I’ll give you seventy five for the lot.”

“That’s all?” Garrett could not keep the disappointment from his voice. He had killed a man for that silverware. Was one life worth so little?

The fence raised an eyebrow. “What, you want more for a few trinkets and an incomplete silver set?”

Garrett shook his head, defeated. “No. I’ll take the seventy five.” The coins were placed in his hand. The fence gave a slight hesitation and added one more coin to the pile.

“For some food. You look a fright.” Garrett scowled at the man but took the coin regardless. He was not a beggar, he never would _be_ a beggar, and he disliked any charity. But Garrett was in no state to refuse.

For the first time in days Garrett felt the pull of emptiness in his stomach. The tavern smelled of warm sausage and he could resist the temptation no more. He approached the bar and pushed the additional coin over to the bartender. He sat at the back of the tavern, concealing himself in the corner of the booth there. A few minutes later a plate of food was placed before him. It was a simple meal, just two sausages and a hefty hunk of bread. Still, it was warm and the best meal he had gotten in quite a few weeks.

He could barely manage to finish the two sausages, small as they were. Garrett’s stomach bulged uncomfortably, the sensation odd. It made him feel heavy and grounded as if he had been floating in the clouds for weeks and only then he felt the cold floor pressing on the bottom of his bare feet. He took up the hunk of bread and swiftly made his way out of the tavern. As soon as he closed the door behind him, a squeak by his feet made him turn.

A big gray rat with those shining black eyes stared back. Garrett watched as it stood on its back legs, whiskers twitching almost indignantly. After the quick exchange it scurried away down the docks.

A sinking feeling felt its way through Garrett’s full stomach. He knew that rat all too well. She was watching and by the way the rat had stopped to look back at him, she wanted to see him.

Resigned to his next task, Garrett sighed and followed the rat, tucking away the hunk of bread so he had his hands free to climb. He caught brief glimpses of the gray rat as it scurried through the streets just as Garrett scurried along the Thief’s Highway. It led him north and north, past the Clock Tower and behind the Crippled Burrick. Garrett could have made his way to the Chapel with his eyes closed, but he still followed the rat. As soon as the tall, crumbling structure pulled into view, Garrett came to a standstill, something gripping him like an unrelenting vice.

He could not face her. How could he ever face her again? Garrett had killed a man just as someone had killed his parents. It was the worst betrayal to them, to himself. And now he had to face the Queen of Beggars and her soft voice, those haunting sightless eyes that saw more than any normal gaze could. Somehow seeing her would make it real. Garrett did not want it to be real. He wanted this nightmare to come to an end, to wake up from this horrific vision.

Nothing was so easy, Garrett knew by then. Nothing had been easy and nothing was going to be easy. Not once had he woken to find whatever horrors that had befallen him be behind him, swept away like the sun penetrating and dissipating the deepest shadows. They were always painfully real and each built upon the next until it weighed on Garrett’s shoulders until he felt he could move no more. All he had to do was keep stepping forward, gain strength to continue carrying that nightmarish weight. But that first step was always the hardest.

Garrett steeled himself and stepped onto the soft, cool soil, the mist billowing out before him as he moved forward. As he reached the entrance he spotted the gray rat standing on its hind legs as if welcoming him back. It was the only pleasant greeting he would get. Garrett fished out the hunk of bread and tore off a corner of it, tossing it to the rat. It caught the morsel of food and scurried off into the shadows.

Garrett had little time to follow its movements before he was compelled to walk into the warm light emitting from the Chapel. The familiar large basket of bread stood off to the side and without a second thought he placed the remainder of the bread within it. His presence was little noted and Garrett was glad of that. He wanted little more than to melt into the shadows and never be seen again.

But that would be too easy. He had to meet with the Queen of Beggars, hear her voice as she made true all that he had done. He felt his skin go cold and clammy with just the thought. Still, he persisted and delved into the lower chamber of the Chapel.

The Queen of Beggars was alone in her armchair, three candles to the right guttering and sending her face into flickering shadow. Her mouth was a thin line, eyes as piercing as ever. Garrett stepped down the stairs lightly, knowing his presence was discerned. She always knew.

“Come in, Garrett.” Her tone was neutral. More than anything that set Garrett on edge. What had he expected? Her to lash out at him in anger as the Stick had? No, that was not her style.

Garrett remained silent but approached all the same. The Queen of Beggars reached a hand out of the folds of her thick coats, falling to a teacup resting beside her. She silently offered it to Garrett, who took it without question.

“I don’t need to tell you why you are here.” Again with the neutral tone.

“I know.”

“Why don’t you tell me what happened.”

“You already know. You always do.”

“My rats may have eyes but they cannot see through yours or hear your thoughts. Go on.”

Garrett took a deep breath, looking down into the amber liquid in the delicate teacup in his hand. He had little thirst even though his mouth felt too dry all of a sudden. “I broke into a man’s house. I took his silverware. He-“ Garrett swallowed, his throat thick, “he was going to catch me but I tried to get away.” The rest of the story would not come. He could not even begin to think of how he would say it if he even ever could.

“You killed him, Garrett.” It was a blow to his stomach and Garrett grimaced. The Queen of Beggars continued. “It was not out of anger or hatred. It was not even planned. You did so out of defense.” The stiffness of her voice only served to bore the message into Garrett. His fault, _his fault_.

“It’s my fault he’s dead.” The words fell from his lips just as the man had slumped to the floor: wet and heavy.

“It was a mistake. Garrett, in your life mistakes will be made. All you can do is to atone for them and move on. Rotting away in the storage closet you call home will do nothing to help you.”

Anger flared in his chest, fire seeming to scorch through him. “How can you say that? What kind of person am I if the mistakes I make include killing people?”

“Be mindful, Garrett. Trust your actions but only if they are calculated. Make no movement without first thinking of the consequences. Remember this death, for it will not be your last, but do make it your last mistake.”

The fire continued to burn in his throat and he blinked the stubborn tears from his eyes. He was not sure if they were born of anger or guilt. “So you want me to kill with a purpose?” The words were a growl, his throat clenching even as he said them.

The Queen of Beggars shook her head slowly. “Not like you are thinking, no. There will be times where you are forced to kill to get by, but there is always another solution. It is up to you to find the alternate path.”

“That’s all the advice you have for me? Think of other ways to do things other than kill people? I sorted that out already.” The anger was still dwelling in his chest but it had calmed down to a bitter simmer.

“Then that is all the advice I can give you. That and to not dwell in despair. Things will be worse for a time but you must get beyond that fear.”

Garrett scowled at her. This was no new information. He was a killer now and that was all there was to it. “Some advice,” he growled, stepping up to the Queen of Beggars and replacing the teacup on the table, its contents untouched. He made his way to the stairs.

“Isolation is only one path you might take, Garrett. Know that.”

Garrett did not respond to the old woman, simply continuing on his way. He shut the gate behind him, not bothering to silence its squealing hinges or the rattle as it closed.

Why had he even gone to see her? Her cryptic words were useless to him. He knew no more than when he had first arrived. All that had changed was the Queen of Beggars had spoken the words. Those dreaded words that he himself still could not utter. He killed him.

You killed him.

Those three words haunted his dreams for the following few weeks. Luckily, he felt well enough to explore the city though exhaustion quickly caught up with him and he had to return to rest not halfway through the night. Garrett had taken to pickpocketing and stealing through windows as he had before. With his lock picks gone, he was restricted to just those. It was all for the better.

The lockpicks were what got him into that mess. If he had only slipped through windows he never would have found himself in that room; the only window was barred shut. Garrett knew that placing the blame outside of himself was not entirely reasonable, but it was the only way he could cope with the solid fact that he had killed.

You killed him.

_You killed him_.

All he could do was move on, just as the Queen of Beggars had suggested. Move on and not repeat that mistake. Garrett continued honing his skills, eyesight getting sharper by the day, hearing more clear, and movements fluid and quiet.

He would get better. He had to. It was the only thing he could do in order to get stronger, so he could carry the heavy weight of nightmares that never would release him from their icy, unrelenting grip.


	13. Chapter 13

Four winters passed through The City, time seeming to crawl along as Garrett continued to survive. The stacks of books in his small abode were hardly manageable anymore, some adorned with various trinkets and jewelry of value. It was a hovel of treasures and the closed, dark space was a comfort that no amount of feather pillows could ever provide. It was a space of his own choosing, of his own creation. It allowed him the solitude he had come to know so well, a place to plot out the floor plans of the largest manors in western Auldale.

But tonight he had other plans. Garrett fetched a scrap of paper and a simple pen and put the tip to the page.

_I require the service you provide with your boat. I need passage across the river to eastern Auldale the evening after next. Meet me with your boat just south of Auldale Bridge as the Clock Tower strikes 9.You will be generously compensated._

He did not sign the letter. It never hurt to be discreet in case the letter fell into unfriendly hands. The letter was meant for a boxman, sometimes smuggler by persuasion he had caught word of while listening in on the shadier side of the docks. It was a man who had a boat and could smuggle items across the river to East Auldale. For so long that place had been too far to reach, Auldale Bridge constantly watched during the day and locked up at night. Garrett was eager to venture out and explore the previously unvisited sector of The City. Grabbing his things, he set out for the apartment mentioned by those men on the docks.

Over the years he had collected some gear that was a bit more usable than stolen laundry. He wore black linen pants that he himself had tailored to fit, having relieved the local seamstress’s apartment of a few needles and some thread. For once it seemed that the work he had done in the orphanage paid off. The shirt he wore he had taken from the leatherworker in Stonemarket. The sleeves were black linen and the front and back were made from the smoothest leather. It was a bit large for him and he had been meaning to tailor it as well but other matters, such as his further excursions about The City, were higher on his list of priorities.

Other than his clothes, he had a simple wooden blackjack. After one run-in with a house guard in one of the larger manors, Garrett had decided that he could go unarmed no longer. A simple whack at the back of the head and guards who were in the way would go down with little fuss. It was by far an easier and cleaner task than sticking a knife in their backs. Even so, he was reluctant to use it. He tried to rely on stealth alone to accomplish his tasks.

Over his head he wore a rough spun cloak, wrapped around his shoulders and hanging down his back. It obscured his form enough, as it was easy to pick out the silhouette of a person, but break up that silhouette and it took wandering eyes a moment longer to register the shape as a person. By then he was long gone.

Garrett secured the cloak tighter about his neck and struck out, the familiar stench of sewage berating his nose. The man he had heard about did his business out of an apartment in Stonemarket. He must keep that business under tight wraps because that was the first that Garrett had ever heard of it. It was a shock to learn about him, actually. Word spread quickly in The City, especially when it was below the notice of The Watch. Garrett always had his ears perked for news and it never was long in coming. This boxman must do everything in his power to keep his business unknown unless to those in the know. It was a good sign and one of the reasons Garrett had decided to rely upon him for this task.

He made his way swiftly north, knowing each and every panel of wood just as well as he knew every book he had thus far collected. It was almost as easy as breathing, jumping from one platform to the next, climbing the crates to higher levels. It was time for a new challenge.

Soon he pulled into the wide alleyway below the apartment where the boxman supposedly had his apartment. He was wary of the few drunk men -obviously patrons from the pub on the corner - stumbling around and tripping over the various piles of broken furniture and who knew what else cluttered the alley. The man he was going to leave the note for was meant to be gone that evening. On a job, getting drunk in the pub around the corner, or bedding a lady in the Skinmarket, Garrett did not quite care to know. All that mattered was the candle in the target apartment window was out and the shadows were thick.

Opening the door on the street level was out of the question. Even if he still had his long-lost lockpicks, he did not want to be seen by the drunk patrons opening it. Instead he stole to the side of the building, scaling the shambles of scaffolding that teetered dangerously. He made his way back around to the apartment and dropped to the window. That was where he made his entrance. The window was smaller than he had anticipated. The latch holding it shut was an easy thing to maneuver. A sweep from the pickpocketing knife he carried on him easily dislodged the lock. He slipped inside, feet first. Even with his small stature it was a squeeze, his shoulders noticeably wider in recent years. One of the many changes he had experienced. He was still getting used to remembering to shave off the stubble from his cheeks and chin, let alone dealing with the various cuts he accidentally gave himself in the process. There were other more intimate changes as well, but he did not care to dwell on those. They were nothing more than a nuisance. Whatever thrills others got out of that, Garrett simply did not understand. Nothing could compare to the thrill of slipping behind an alert Watchman, taking his coin pouch, and stealing away unnoticed.

Garrett cleared his head as his bare feet hit the wood floor. Garrett was surprised to find it clean; not many apartments he found his way into were so well looked after. He glanced about. There was a desk to his left and a bed stood just to his right. There were shelves filled with odds and ends that Garrett could not make out in the heavy dark. He crept forward, startled when his shin hit something solid. Garrett caught the stool before it could hit the floor, but not before it scraped across the wood.

Somewhere deep in the shadows behind him there was a rustle and a single light twitter. Garrett let out the breath he had been holding. Just a bird. He squinted and sure enough there were a series of bird cages in the back corner. Good to know.

Garrett retrieved the letter from his pocket and placed it square in the middle of the desk. Satisfied, he returned to the window. He quickly slipped out, securing the lock once more with his knife.

Job done. Now all he had to do was wait and hope his information was correct.

He moved on to his next task. To go into a new part of The City, he had to get some new gear. Garrett had gone barefoot for far too long.

\---

The appointed night had arrived. Garrett tugged on his new footwear: simple leather socks that allowed for free movement and the feel of the ground beneath him, protected him from sharp objects, and further muffled his footsteps. They had been a lucky find in the leather shop, the leather perfectly conforming to the shape of his feet. With the rest of his gear ready he tucked the empty loot sack about his belt and set out.

Soon enough, Auldale Bridge rose before him, the windows of the apartments lining its sides glinting with candlelight. Far across the river the riches of Auldale waited for him.

The Clock Tower chimed out nine times just as he approached the foot of the bridge, a small dock precariously positioned next to the huge stone foundations. Sure enough, there was a man sitting in a small boat tied off to one of the posts. Garrett made sure the hood of his cloak was secured about his head and he approached on silent feet. He did not want the man to see him until he announced his presence. Garrett was not disappointed.

“You got my letter,” Garrett said in greeting.

The man jumped as Garrett stepped out of the shadows.

“Shit! Make some noise, why don’t you?” Garrett stared at the man, the low moonlight making every odd bump in the man’s pudgy, pockmarked cheeks all the more apparent. The man scrutinized Garrett in turn, mouth turned down in disappointment. “Aw, you’re a kid? I thought this was going to be a serious gig.”

Garrett scowled. “I’m not a kid.” Indeed, if the date of his birth he remembered was correct he would be seventeen that year.

The man grunted gruffly. “Sure. Get in, ‘not a kid.’” He motioned to the boat he sat in, the space hardly looking big enough for him let alone another whole person.

Garret made no move towards the boat. “My name is Garrett.”

The man was not impressed, though he made himself out to be. “Yeah? You never said so in your little message. Name’s Basso, in case you didn’t know. I’m sure you do by now, seeing as you found me. So you getting in or can I go home?”

Garrett finally stepped closer, wary of how the boat rolled in the slight current of the river. He was suddenly rethinking the whole operation, none too willing to get on another boat. “I thought it would be a bigger boat.” It was the only excuse he could come up with for his hesitation.

Basso shrugged. “Tough luck, Garrett. Now get in and give me my coin.”

Garrett crossed his arms over his chest, not moving. He knew he was stalling but Basso did not need to know that piece of information. “You’ll get your coin when I am safely back here.”

“What?” Basso spat. “That wasn’t part of the deal.” Not angry and not refusing. Garrett could work with that.

“It is now.”

Basso raised a sausage-like finger and shook it at Garrett. “Rule one of business is keeping your word. If you weren’t a kid you’d know that.”

Garrett thought for a moment. Just how much could he get out of this man? “You’ll get half the cut.”

Basso was exasperated. “Oh right, now we are making a new deal? I don’t even want to know what you’re doing in Auldale tonight. Just so you know, the Skinmarket in South Quarter is much cheaper.”

A flush crept is way up Garrett’s neck and he was glad of the hood he wore and the shadow that concealed his face. “I’m a thief. You’ll get half of what I steal if I get back here in one piece.”

“A thief, huh?” A gruff chuckle came from somewhere deep in the man’s barrel chest. “Now that’s more probable than you being a frock catcher I must admit. No offense. So, how do I know that my cut will be worth it? How good of a thief are you?”

Garrett sighed. This man was almost more trouble than he was worth. “I’m good at not being seen and getting into places where I’m not allowed. You supposedly know everyone in this city but you’ve never heard of me.”

The man’s mouth turned down in a frown, squinting his dark eyes at Garrett. “That doesn’t tell me nothing. You’re young; I doubt anyone has heard of you.”

“Consider tonight an investment,” Garrett pressed, quickly losing patience with the man. “You’ll see how good I am when we get back. And you’ve seen how quiet I am. You didn’t notice me when I approached.”

Basso adjusted himself in the boat and Garrett watched with rapt attention as it sloshed from side to side in the water. “Just because you’re sneaky doesn’t mean you can steal, but I can’t say you don’t have impressive credentials. Fine, I’ll take your deal. Just get in the boat before the night wastes away.”

Before Garrett could think himself out of it, he stepped into the boat. He had to tamp down the jolt of panic that sparked through him as it moved beneath him. He was painfully aware of Basso watching him and grimaced when he commented.

“Not much of a boatman are you?” It was less a question and more a statement. Garrett did not dignify the man with a response. Basso simply shrugged it off and took up the oars. “Untie us from the dock and we’ll be away.”

It took some doing, what with Garrett struggling to maintain balance while leaning over the side and tugging the mooring line loose. Soon they were out on the water, Garrett clenching the wooden seat beneath him until his hands cramped. Throughout the journey across the river, Garrett struggled to retain composure. He kept his eyes focused on the shoreline, on the buildings sparkling with lit windows and casting that light across the water. He dared not admit it, even to himself, but he was petrified. The pitch black maw of water cradling the boat was even more menacing than it was during the day. At least during the day he would be able to tell which way was up if he fell in. In the dark of night with no discernible difference between sky and water Garrett would immediately be lost in the deep depths, crushed below the smoothly moving current and tumbled around like some leaf on the wind.

“You look nervous.”

Garrett was startled out of his panicking thoughts and shot Basso a glare.

Basso dropped the oars and held up his hands, a motion of peace. “Woah, just tryin’ to make conversation.”

“Keep rowing,” Garrett responded through clenched teeth.

Basso did so with a grumble. Soon they pulled up alongside a dock much newer than the one they had cast off from.

Garrett was more than happy to step out of the boat and onto a steady surface. He turned back to Basso to give further instructions. “Stay here. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

Basso was not thrilled. “A few hours? What am I supposed to do until then, play at Rat-Sally-Jack?”

“Not my problem.”

The man scoffed at him but eventually his bulbous cheeks made way for a smirk. “You’d better be as good as you think you are.”

Garrett did not wait around to answer. _If this part of Auldale is as rich as they say, I can get away with giving him a third and he’ll never know the difference._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay Basso! He's so much fun to write.  
> Okay friends, this'll be the last Tuesday update since classes are starting back up next week. I'm going to try my best to keep up my Friday updates and I have enough of a buffer that it shouldn't be a problem. But if I do miss an update sometime in the next 10 weeks it's not because I'm dead it's because I'm swamped in writing papers.


	14. Chapter 14

The first thing that Garrett noticed was the lack of stench this side of Auldale had. Sure, it still had the heavy smell of the river lingering over everything but there was something lacking. Was it sewage, garbage? The heady smell of drying fish? Garrett could not quite place it. It just seemed clean, the air not sticking to the back of his throat as he was used. Even the cobblestones beneath his feet were clean, the white stone seeming to glisten in the light of the half moon just peeking over the rooftops.

He stole into a side street, looking for something to climb up so he could begin his search for loot. That was when another realization struck him: there were no haphazard crates lying about. The streets were swept clean from clutter, even the back alleyways. Garrett scowled at it. He could not even see a Thief’s Highway. He set his jaw and continued his search. There had to be a way. He had been spoiled by such accessible windows for too long. This was a good challenge. But perhaps the next time he scoured this section of The City he would have a rope with a grapple to help get to those higher stories.

Garrett stepped through alleyway after alleyway and finally came across a low wall that he could climb. From there he hoisted himself onto a balcony. The window was dark but he could discern lavish curtains just beyond the clean glass. Just beyond that was a table and Garrett could see something shining on top of it. A small grin spread over Garrett’s cheeks.

_It seems you have not had a thief problem in a while. I might have to remedy that._

It took some effort, but Garrett was eventually able to pry the window open. He made a mental note to find a tool that would make the job easier. He slipped in, leather-clad feet hardly making a sound on the hardwood floor. He crept to the table first, picking up the bottle of perfume that had caught his eye.

_Better not let this break or I’ll be smelling like the ladies in the Skinmarket. Basso might get the wrong idea about why I’m here_. _Again._

It had not been the first time his intentions were misread. Months previous he had been busy trying to pry open a window when he was cornered by a woman in a loose frock with an even looser tongue. She had made a sly comment about how she would like his lithe body breaking in to _her_ window. Garrett had seen plenty of men fall apart with lust over much less. All Garrett felt was the itch to disappear, to fill his sack with loot and be away from the woman and her wiles.

Garrett shook away the memory, trying to shed the embarrassment and unease it still brought. He did not know if he would ever understand the desperation for a woman’s touch that plagued so many men. It seemed such a burden that he was glad did not weigh him down. Besides, his focus was better put elsewhere, such as filling his sack with as many riches he could.

He placed the glass vessel in his sack and moved on to the drawer. A set of earrings were the next item to get stashed away. It seemed every part of the room he looked contained some sort of treasure. It was more than what he usually found in three apartments in Stonemarket.

Satisfied with his haul, he slipped back out the window and closed it behind him. Back on the street, Garrett went off in search of another path to climb. A voice stopped him in his tracks and he pressed himself back into a deep shadow as two Watchmen strutted down the street before him. One carried a torch, the other a crossbow. He scrutinized them for a long moment as they leisurely made their way past. Not on high alert, not checking each corner. They were not used to fighting or chasing down thieves. What was keeping the thieves from the other side of the river away from there?

Garrett’s question was answered when he stumbled upon a small square. High above the dry fountain a most gruesome sight killed any excitement that lingered in Garrett’s chest. Two figures hung limp, suspended from a beam that reached from one rooftop to the other. Their hands were blackened, what little of them there was left. Garrett counted about seven fingers altogether on both of the bodies. A sick feeling fell into his gut.

That was why Auldale felt so safe. Thieves did not last long there. Senses heightened, Garrett crossed the courtyard and melted into the shadows. He just had to be better than them. It was a simple enough task.

The next apartment he came across was traversed to via a terrace with thick, lush vines. The window was not even locked. Wary, Garrett stepped lightly into the room. It seemed just as lavish as the first apartment, but something did not feel quite right. Garrett brushed of the feeling. He was just shaken by seeing the two hanging corpses. He just had to be quick.

He opened drawers, collecting small trinkets as he went. It was nothing so fancy as the previous apartment but they would still fetch a good price. Next he came to a dresser. He tried pulling the door open but was dismayed to find it locked. That familiar haunting memory passed through his mind before he could shove it away. The blood on his hands, those wide eyes dying right before him. If only he had bypassed that apartment, not picked that lock. Garrett shook himself. No use in lingering on past mistakes. He just had to move on-

Just as Garrett stepped away, there was a mechanical clatter beneath his feet. The floor where he had just stood shifted, a plate moving back into place. He heard the whistle to his right a moment too late. A sharp pain bloomed in his shoulder and he staggered back.

A trap? How had he not thought of that? Nowhere in the west side of The City was wealthy enough to afford such securities besides in the manors. Those ones he knew well enough to avoid.

A commotion below him jarred him from his racing thoughts. He was out the window and back on the street before he knew it. He swiftly made his way to the next alley over, every motion jarring his shoulder. Garrett did not have time to stop and check it; he had to get out of the area before the Watchmen came to search for him. His leather socks slipped on the smooth cobblestones more than once as he hastily made his way west. Making a mental note to sew on a layer of rougher leather to the bottoms, he slowed his pace. He made it to the river and vaulted over the low wall to the docks. It was much further south than the docks Basso had dropped him off at.

Garrett sat, chest heaving from his frantic escape. Only then did he look down to his arm. A short barb stuck out from his upper arm. Garrett grimaced. It needed to come out. Clenching his teeth, he grabbed it and before he could second guess the action gave a great pull. Vertigo overcame him and he barely caught himself as his mind threatened unconsciousness. He felt a warm trickle slip down his arm.

_Seems every rose has its thorns_.

He took his pick pocketing knife and cut a strip off of his cloak, binding his arm as tightly as his pain tolerance would allow. Garrett stood, tried to raise his arm to test it for maneuverability. He grimaced and his breath caught in his throat. He had barely been able to raise it a foot away from his side.

_So much for giving Basso only a third of the loot. I’ll be lucky if I got enough to pay him, let alone get a profit_.

Defeated, Garrett set out to find the boatman. Just as the distant Clock Tower rung a single, echoing chime he came upon the man and his boat. It was earlier than he anticipated being back, but the man was fast asleep with mouth wide open, snoring loud enough to draw even the most inattentive Watchman from a block away.

Perturbed, Garrett kicked the side of the boat. “Get up, we’re done here.”

Basso jolted, the motion rocking the small boat beneath him. He blinked up at Garrett, bleary eyed. “Wh… what?” It took him a moment to fully register the situation. “Oh, you’re finally back. ‘Bout time. Were you followed?”

Garrett simply glared at him and shook his head.

The man grunted. “Hope you’re right. Get in.”

Garrett did so and soon they were off. Halfway across the river, Basso moaned and released his hold on the oars.

“You want to take over? My arm’s cramping up.” He made a big show of rubbing his shoulder.

Garrett glared at him. “I’m not paying you to sit around while I work.”

 “You haven’t paid me at all, remember?”

Garrett sighed. Basso had a point. Seeing his resolve, Basso offered him the oars and he reluctantly took them, shoving aside the invading memories of the last time he had manned a boat. Garrett dipped the oars in the water and pulled towards him, catching more water on the right than the left. Still, it felt like he was doing it right. At least both oars were in the water. The sharp pain where the barb had pierced him made him wince but thankfully his face was in shadow and his escort did not notice. After a few strokes he spoke to the man. “You’ll get your coin as soon as I find a fence.”

A self-satisfied smirk spread over Basso’s pudgy face and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Well today is your lucky day - eh, night I suppose. When I’m not cracking safes or escorting jackass thieves, I happen to be an up and coming fence. Mind if I peruse the wares?”

Garrett grunted his response as he gave another great pull of the oars, his arm throbbing with every motion. “You get paid when I get back.”

Basso grunted, “Suit yourself. Just know you are going in the wrong direction.”

Garrett glanced behind him and instead of seeing the shore, they were facing upriver. Garrett suppressed a groan. They had barely moved at all.

“Then it would be in your best interest to take the oars back.” His arm was hurting too much to continue even if they were going in the correct direction.

Garrett scowled as Basso chuckled, sitting back with arms still crossed over his barrel chest. “No, I’ll just watch you struggle a while longer. This makes up for making me wait for four hours.”

“It was three.” Garrett grunted with the effort of trying to turn the boat in the correct direction, his frantic jerking movements making it rock back and forth. He favored his left arm to poor effect, only managing to spin them and not move forward.

After one too many jolts, Basso groaned. “Shit, this is just sad. Give me the oars, you just stick with the thieving. I can at least assume you’re good at _that_.” With pride hurt more than he wanted to admit, Garrett gratefully handed over the oars and the boat immediately was under control and moving in the correct direction. Before long they pulled up alongside the same ragged dock they had disembarked from. Garrett tried to tie the mooring line to the dock but he did not know the knot for it. He struggled for a bit as Basso secured the oars in the bottom of the boat. After a while Basso shoved him aside and took over, Garrett losing his footing and barely managing to aim his fall into the boat. He landed heavily on the sack of loot, the various objects digging painfully into his back. It was only by a rare stroke of luck that he did not land on his injured arm.

The commotion drew an amused chuckle from Basso who had quickly secured the line. “Not a boatman, no.”

Garrett straightened himself, more than a little indignant. “Do you want to get paid or not?”

“Damn, you’re worse than my ex-wife.” He sighed. “Not here. Not enough light to appraise the items. We’ll go back to my place and you can show me what you got.”

Garrett straightened himself, standing uneasily. He bent to grab the bag of loot, feeling the boat shift under him. Panic gripped him and he made the only motion that he thought would save him. He leapt for the dock. Unfortunately for both him and Basso, the stout man had one foot on the dock and one on the boat, a precarious position not at all securing the boat in any sort of stable way. The sudden jolt from Garrett pushed the boat out from under both of them.

For the second time, Garrett was consumed by the water. This time, however, he managed to grip one hand on the dock during his descent. He broke free of the water with a gasp, pulling himself up. He ignored the pain in his arm, much more intent on getting out of the inky black water than preventing pain. It was a graceless scramble getting back onto the dock, but at least he fared better than Basso had. The man sputtered in shocked rage, treading water just beside the dock.

“Shit!”He spat out water, anger flaring. “What’d you do that for? It’s fucking freezing! Help me out or I swear-”

Garrett did not hesitate to reach a hand down to the man. Such an influential man in the under workings of The City, Garrett did not want to be on his bad side. It was a struggle but eventually working together they were able to get Basso out of the ill-smelling river. Only then did the sting of the river water reach Garrett’s injured arm. He gritted his teeth and fought down a hiss of pain. Did nothing ever go to plan?

Basso shook himself, the motion doing nothing to help dry him off. Both he and Garrett were soaked through. “Shit, you’d better hope you got plenty of loot tonight. This had better be worth it. Grab your bag and follow me.” As Garrett did so he heard Basso continue his quite colorful muttering, squeezing the water out of his clothes as best he could. Again, it was a useless effort.

Soaked and cold, it was a long walk back to Basso’s apartment. An uncomfortable silence fell between the two. Basso walked down the middle of the street as if he owned every cobblestone while Garrett stepped lightly along the side, staying to the deep shadows as much as possible. His new leather socks squelched, water sloshing between his toes. He could feel Basso’s beady dark eyes following his every move. It was more an annoyance than anything. The man did not set him on edge with his staring as the Queen of Beggars did. It was an odd comparison, but one of the only comparisons Garrett was able to make. There were not many people in The City he allowed to see him.

They wound their way through tight alleyways and soon they were at the backdoor to the apartment. Garrett watched as Basso unlocked the door with a twist of a key. It was peculiar walking through the door to the apartment instead of climbing up and slipping through the window, but Garrett let that feeling pass. It was more than welcome, the wound on his shoulder more than a little bothersome. Any further stress and he would be in more pain than he could simply ignore. He followed the man up a set of stairs and to another locked door, both dripping water the whole way.

After Basso pressed his way in to the apartment he gave a broad gesture with an arm as if showing off some grand structure and not a sparsely adorned room. “Welcome to my place of business, though I guess this isn’t your first time is it? Show me what you’ve got. The suspense is killing me.” The way he said it, in that bored and tired tone, pulled at Garrett’s patience. Basso turned and tossed a log on the hot coals in the small stove just beyond the desk, muttering under his breath. Disregarding him, Garrett pulled the sack of loot off of his shoulder, careful to move his injured arm as little as possible, and placed it in the middle of the desk. He crossed his arms as Basso, done tending to the fire, eagerly dumped its contents out. His eyes grew wide as he swept his gaze over it all.

“You got all this just tonight?” Basso looked up to Garrett, his eyes wide and disbelieving. Garrett only shrugged in response, repressing a wince as the motion pulled at his injury. Thankfully Basso did not seem to notice. He simply grunted, returning his gaze to the loot. “You’re more than just good. We agreed on half, yes?” Basso sifted through the items, taking out a pen and scribbling down a few notes on a scrap of paper as he went. After inspecting each item in turn, he returned to his notes. Basso counted on his fingers, rubbing his pudgy cheek in concentration as he poured over the notes. After a little while he finally looked up at Garrett.

“Well altogether I’d buy this for four hundred. Seeing as half of it is mine, I’ll give you your cut.”

Basso then opened a drawer and drew out a coin pouch. He shuffled inside it and produced a handful of coins, carefully counting them. Seeming satisfied he looked back up to Garrett. “Yes, here is your share. Two hundred. Not bad but not quite worth the soaking if you ask me.”

Garrett held out his hand and the coin was placed in his palm. He struggled to maintain composure. It was the most coin he had ever held in his hand at once. Garrett clutched it tight and turned to leave. Before he could take one step, Basso stopped him.

“Ah, Garrett. The next time you need to go to Auldale don’t come to me for help. That was a nightmare I’d rather not live through again. It’s going to take days for these clothes to dry. No, here hold on.” Garrett waited impatiently as he rummaged in one of the drawers. “Ah, ah here we are.” He held something out for Garrett, who took it with slight hesitation. Two slender metal pieces, each with hooks on the end. Garrett felt his throat clench and he had a sudden desire to drop them and never look back. Something stopped him though. That something came in the form of a gruff voice. “Lockpicks. Consider that an investment in our future business. Learn how to use them and the gate to Auldale will be an open door. Now go and don’t come back unless you have more loot to sell. And no cryptic messages this time, alright?”

It took a moment but Garrett steadied himself. “I know how to use lockpicks.”

Basso put his hand on the desk before him, leaning forward and leering at him. “Oh really now? Then why hire me in the first place?”

“I lost the last pair I had.”

Basso leaned back. “Well good thing I’m giving you more. Don’t lose these ones too; I won’t be giving you any more free wares. Those you have to buy for yourself.”

Garrett could only stare at the slender pieces of metal, that haunting memory returning after so long being dormant. He felt his skin crawl with the ghost of warm blood, felt that wildness that had overcome him when he had stripped his body and plunged into the canal, those lockpicks that he thought were the cause of it all drifting away. Why then? Why was he plagued just then? He had thought himself past that horrific, bloody event. He had moved on.

He shook himself. Apparently he had not.

“What, something wrong with them?” The question brought Garrett out of his daze.

“No, I just haven’t used any since…” He caught himself. Why had he spoken? This man was little more than a stranger. He did not know him, did not know what he had-

“What, since you killed a man?” Garrett jolted, throwing a wild look at the man. Did he know? How could he know? Had the Queen of Beggars told him? Did he see things the way she did?

Basso looked almost as stunned as Garrett felt. “What’s that look for?” He paused for a moment and seemed to realize something. “Oh, you have.” The change that overcame Basso was instantaneous. He seemed to deflate, looking at Garrett not as a client, not as a thief, but as a human. It seemed the first time someone had actually looked at him and truly _seen_ him. It was startling to Garrett to say the least. He unconsciously stepped closer to the shadows.

Basso sighed. “Look, everyone in this city has killed someone at one point or another, in some way. Doesn’t matter if you live in a fancy manor or sleep in your own piss. You’ve done it, I’ve done it, the fucking Baron has done it more than most. A life is worth piss and shit in this city. That’s why we work in this trade, right? You can put a price on anything that glistens. Just bring me some and I’ll give you coin for it.” He straightened himself, demeanor changing back to his normal self. “Now get out, you’re dripping water all over.”

Had this man just… accepted him? The feeling was so alien it set him on edge but something about how the man said it then put him at tentative ease. It took Garrett a moment to find his voice. “So are you.”

That earned him a barking laugh. “Fuck off.”

But Garrett was already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, change of plans. You'll be (hopefully) getting weekly updates on Tuesdays since on Fridays I'm going to be doing fieldwork.


	15. Chapter 15

The tiled roof hardly made a sound beneath him, the flutter of his cloak all that could be discerned in the deep moonless night. He darted around pools of light issuing from windows overlooking fine balconies, the residents within none the wiser to his presence.

It was almost too easy slipping by. Garrett had already been in two of his frequented houses; wealthy families that simply replaced what he took. It was too easy. A grin spread over his cheeks as he swept over the Thief’s Highway.

A shadow of motion caught his eye just beyond the house on the corner. It was not often he saw others using the highway across the roofs but it happened on occasion. It was just another thief picking the ripe fruit from right under the noses of the arrogant rich. Garrett reached the corner and turned in the opposite direction. No use in starting a rivalry with another thief.

That was when he approached yet another one of his regular thieving spots. It was a relatively nice estate: two stories on a corner lot. He had taken his fill there not two weeks before but the sack at his back was feeling woefully light. Garrett pulled himself up to the attic window and sure enough it was unlocked.

_Some people are just asking to be thieved. Good thing I can provide that service… for a fee._

Garrett slipped into the attic, quickly making his way past the dusty boxes that held nothing of interest. He had checked. It was the first floor that had the family’s treasures. He tested the square door on the floor and found it too was open. Strange, it had been locked the last time he was there. Garrett brushed it off, putting it down to a simple coincidence of convenience.

The room below was dark, not even a single candle lighting it. Garrett dropped down, his gentle landing made even more so by the thick rug. He let one corner of his mouth turn upward. Would these rich people never learn?

The room was in fact a long hallway, the family’s bedroom doors lining it. That time of night, all would be asleep. Perfect. The rug continued down the length of the hall, muffling his footsteps. As he passed by a candlestick he took it up and quickly shoved it in his bag. The stairs before him were a bit tricky. There were a few of them that creaked with even a light step. Garrett just had to remember just which ones.

It was the second, fourth and the-

Garrett flinched as a loud groan issued below him, the wood creaking with his weight. He remained still for a long moment, ears straining for any sign of stirrings. Hearing none, he slowly took his weight off of the stair. It creaked back into place but the sound was gentler. The rest of the way down the stairs he moved slowly and carefully, testing each stair before he put his full weight on it. Without further incident, Garrett made it to the first floor. There the hardwood of the stairs made way for a beautifully laid stone mosaic floor. He moved lightly over it, stepping heel to toe to reduce the sound his feet made on the surface.

The dining room was his first stop, silver plates set out for display over the mantle, the fireplace still glowing red with embers. Garrett did not take the time to warm himself by it, though with the winter’s chill it would have been a welcome detour. Determined, he continued on. He had more important matters to attend to, namely that golden candelabra in the center of the table. It was quickly taken up and stashed in his sack.

The next room was the entrance hall, where he took a small portrait with an ornately decorated frame. He crossed the hall and stole into the study. That was where he had to be careful. Underneath the plush rug just beside the desk was a pressure plate. It had only taken him one time stepping on it to memorize its position. He still had the scars on his leg where the darts had pierced him. It was a lesson he would not soon forget. So Garrett stepped carefully around the pressure plate, opening the drawers and retrieving whatever office supplies he could find. It was not much and less than he had found on his previous visit.

Garrett turned and felt a chill run up his neck. Was that…? No, it was just a draft. Just the barred window cracked open. Even so, he retreated from the office without searching the in the corner. His last stop was the small library just beyond the stairs. After eight years of living in his small home the clutter of books had become somewhat overwhelming. Had it really been that long? He must be nearing almost twenty years old. Garrett shook off his revelation and turned to more pressing matters, like picking up loot for his meals for the next week.

Despite himself, Garrett found himself squinting at the titles of the books on the book shelves. What was one more book?

He ran his fingers lightly over the top of the books, coming across one that did not have a title on the spine. Curiosity overcame him and he pulled it from its spot. A mechanical whirr made Garrett jump back, eyes darting wildly around. There was a low rumble from the wall to his left. In the dark, he looked and thought for a moment that he was seeing a vision in the shadows.

No, it was not a vision. It was a false wall. Garrett looked on with anticipation and fascination as it slid to the side, revealing a dark spot on the wall. A safe.

Garrett smirked. It was just too easy.

He pulled out the lock picks given to him by Basso that one fateful night two years previously and set to work. It was a complicated lock, but not the hardest one he had cracked. With a few precise motions there was a satisfying clunk as the locking mechanism gave way. Garrett secured the lock picks back in the hidden pockets at his wrists. He pried the door open, eager to see what was so important that required a secret passageway as well as a lock.

Whatever that dark crevice contained Garrett never found out. There was a sharp pain that exploded on the back of his head, his vision blurring. Just as his legs gave way beneath him, he caught a glimpse of a man with a round helmet and a beard staring down at him. Garrett did not even have a chance to recall that haunting memory before his vision faded to black.

\---

Hard stone, a cold and rough surface on his face. An ache in his head that felt like he had a sword imbedded between his eyes. His breath came out in a moan.

“Oh you’re awake, thief? Had a nice rest?” The hoarse chuckle following the wheezing voice grated on Garrett. He did not move.

The deafening clanging of wood on metal struck Garrett deep, his head pounding. Metal, stone floor… just where was he? The pain between his eyes redoubled as he opened them, seeing only blurred stone before him. He blinked a few times, trying to clear his vision. It took him a moment but eventually he focused on rough, worn metal bars not two paces from where he lay. The clamor redoubled and he moaned as his head pounded with the noise.

Only then did he look up to see the guard battering something on the bars. He tried to move away but his vision swam and he remained still.

“You think you are some great thief, huh? You’re just some taffing kid.” The man spat, thick phlegm landing close to Garrett’s face.

Garrett grimaced, something burning in his chest. Was it hurt pride, embarrassment, anger? He could not quite tell. “I’m not a kid.” His voice was hoarse, almost slurred as his cheek was still firmly pressed to the stone floor.

The guard let out a barking, hoarse laugh. Luckily he tucked away the thing he had been banging on the bars. A blackjack. _Garrett’s_ blackjack. “A little peach fuzz on your chin doesn’t make you a man.”

Peach fuzz? Garrett lifted a hand to touch his jaw but stopped himself. The man was just mocking him. Whenever he did not shave for a few days, the hair on his chin and lip was scratchy and when he did shave it off it was dark. But what did he know? The last time he had looked at himself in a mirror he-

Garrett stopped that thought. He was not that helpless child any more. He was a man, despite the guard’s insinuation. He was strong; he was good at his profession.

And he was not that helpless child.

Garrett stood, shoving aside the sudden vertigo that overcame him with the accompanying stabbing ache at the back of his head. He had to catch himself on the stone wall to keep from collapsing, but he glared at the guard all the same. He dared not talk back, unsure if his tongue would work that well again. In fact, he was more focused on not emptying his stomach. That sudden motion had sent the world spinning and it was all he could do to keep his eyes focused on the guard, let alone keep his thoughts straight.

“Oh, big strong thief going to put up a fight?” Another barking laugh. “Look at you, you’re just a scrawny street urchin!”

“No.” The word fell from Garrett’s lips and he could hardly hear it himself, though it had cost him too much and the effort sent another spike of pain through his head. He stumbled back, but there was not far to go before his back was pressed against yet another stone wall. For the first time Garrett understood where he was.

A prison.

He had heard some of the beggars in the chapel talking about the various prisons scattered about The City. This one looked worn down, the stone at his feet smooth from hundreds of years of prisoners pacing on it. The wall had once had a bench secured in the stone, but the wood had long since rotted away. The grate just by his feet reeked of sewage and he did not have to wonder where he was supposed to relieve himself.

“Oh, where are my manners?” The guard mocked, leaning in close to the barred door. Garrett did not have to be close to him to know that the man stank of pipe smoke and unwashed clothing. He flashed a yellowed smile and continued. “Welcome to Pavelock Prison. Known for hundreds of years as the place where no one escapes alive. I hope you enjoy your stay, as short as it may be.”

“Good I was hoping to be back by dinner,” Garrett ground out through clenched teeth.

That sent the guard into a round of hoarse laughter that berated Garrett’s ears and made his aching head throb all the more. “Dinner for the crows, sure.”

With that he disappeared, waddling steps taking him down the dark hall.

The man gone, Garrett allowed himself to slip down the wall to sit on the floor. Just standing that long had exhausted him. That blow to the head had really taken its toll. Gingerly, he touched the back of his head and winced at the sharp pain that lanced through it, the skin raised in a swelling lump. There did not appear to be blood, dry and crusty or otherwise. At least he had that small condolence.

Garrett felt his eyes droop and he shook himself awake. No, he could not sleep there. The guard had said that he did not have long. He needed to escape. But just how he was going to manage that was another matter entirely.

While trying to remain as still as possible to prevent another wave of vertigo, he checked himself for remaining tools. The guard had his blackjack that much he knew, but what else had they taken? The small curved blade he used for pickpocketing was gone, as was his sack of loot and his crowbar. Next Garrett checked the hidden pockets on his wrists and was awash with relief when he found the thin metal bars of his lockpicks still securely in place.

Those pockets secured around his wrists by leather bands and concealed by his long sleeves had taken him a good while to make. In that moment Garrett was entirely too grateful that he had spent that extra time making them invisible to any man that did not know what he was looking for.

Now all that was left for him to do was unlock the cell door, retrieve the rest of his gear, and find his way out. On any normal night that would not have been a problem. With his head throbbing and threatening unconsciousness with every move he made, his predicament was far more precarious. He just had to recover enough to escape. How long that would take and how long he had until his date with a vat of hot black oil for his hands and a noose for his neck, Garrett did not know.

All he could do for now was wait and hope the latter did not come first.

\---

Garrett jolted awake as heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway. When had he fallen asleep? It was impossible to tell how long he had been out. The window high above that he supposed used to open to the air was blocked off with a heavy layer of mortar and stone. He did a quick check on the state of his head and found that it was still sore to the touch but he could turn his head without his vision darkening.

That was all good, but those approaching footsteps were not.

Garrett shrunk back into the cell, into the thick shadows in the corner. He drew the hood of his cloak over his head, still surprised they had not taken that from him along with the rest of his gear.

Every few steps the guard took, a resounding clang rung down the hall. Each one sent a jolt of pain through Garrett’s head. The guard was using Garrett’s blackjack on the bars of the cell doors. There were a few muttering complaints from other residents on the cell block but Garrett remained silent. He looked intently on as the Watchman’s dark silhouette passed in front of his own cell door. Then the man stopped.

“Hey,” the man rasped, peering into the dark. Garrett scowled at him from the far corner. “I can still see you, little thief. Your pale face is brighter than the moon.” Garrett did not dignify the guard with a response and he eventually walked away with a huff, continuing his noisy route down the hall.

That was his chance. Moving silently, Garrett stepped to the barred door, his lockpicks finding their way into his delicate grip. It was tricky picking the lock backwards and the style of lock was very old, but he eventually heard the satisfying clunk of the mechanism giving way. Then it was a simple matter of getting out, finding his gear, and then making his way to the streets. Simple in theory.

He lifted the gate of his cell before pushing it to reduce the screeching of the hinges. It worked a lot better than he anticipated. With the gate securely back in place, Garrett looked at his surroundings. To the left at the end of the hallway he could just make out the beginning of a staircase. That was his exit. To his right through an open doorway a light flickered. The guard’s station. That must be where they were keeping his gear. He moved to the right, about to turn the corner into the guard’s station when a scuffling noise made him freeze. A chair scooting back, a rustle of clothes. Another guard.

Garrett looked for an alternate path and was greeted by one almost immediately. On the bottom of the wall was a low tunnel that delved into the wall. Once inside Garrett knew just where it led. If the rank smell of sewage was not enough of a giveaway, the shape of the tunnel was the exact shape of the grate at the back of his cell. Garrett held back the repulsion in his gut and continued on. He turned left when the sewer split and eventually he came to the room he had hoped to enter. The guard station.

Just beyond the tunnel was an ancient pipe system, long out of use from the look of it. That was not what caught Garrett’s eye. It was the shelving that stood just beyond yet another wall of bars. It was most likely where they kept the possessions of all those who had been captured and put behind the bars of this prison.

It was an easy matter slipping through the iron bars, many of them missing and providing wide openings. He could have picked the lock on the door but by the look of it, the hinges would scream louder than a room full of startled crows. On one of those shelves glinted a small pile of tools. His tools. Beside that a hefty black sack.

_So the Watch must have decided to keep my loot as evidence. They are as much thieves as I am._

Just as he took up the sack, careful to not jostle the contents, he heard the first guard’s steps echo down the hallway. Garrett’s chest clenched. The man’s route was shorter than he anticipated. Dread fell over him as the guard’s rasping voice issued down the hall.

“Hey little thief, you think that just by turning away from me you can hide? Hah,” the man barked out a laugh, “just you wait until morning comes. There won’t be no hiding from the tar and noose.”

Garrett’s chest unclenched immediately. He could have laughed at the man. Did that guard honestly think the empty shadow in the back of his cell contained him? His lack of perception was almost pitiable. Almost.

He waited until the guard walked into the lit room and conversed with the second guard sitting at the table, and continued on back down the hallway before Garrett began gathering up the rest of his supplies. It was not much, just his pick pocketing knife, a grappling hook, and his crowbar. With that done, it was time to leave. Slipping back into the sewage tunnel was a simple matter, but waiting for the guard to walk past took longer than he wanted. At least the Watchman did not stop at his old cell to again spit chides at an empty shadow.

Once both guards were back in the guard station, Garrett swiftly made his way to the stairs. He barely made note of the other prisoners tucked away into the other cells. Had he been a better man he would have stopped to open those cell doors. But no, he needed to escape without further complications and having more prisoners not trained in stealth escaping with him would make his job impossible. They would have to fend for themselves. He almost felt guilty, but the persistent ache in the back of his head reminded him of just how vulnerable he was. Garrett had to minimize complications as best he could or his life was forfeit.

The stairs at the end of the hallway led him to a heavy locked door. The lock was again an old style, not one that Garrett was familiar with. Still, with effort he got it open. There he came upon a room with an arching roof, two empty cells to his front and to the right. He stopped and listened for any signs of a guard. Hearing none, Garrett continued on his way. Another locked door was quickly opened and yet another hallway lined with cell doors stretched out before him. He stepped through the shadows, careful to muffle his passage and stay only in the deepest shadows. It would not do to alert-

A howl echoed on the rough stone walls and Garrett immediately pressed himself to the wall, bumping the back of his head in his haste. Even that was almost enough to put him down. Just as his vision cleared, there was another wail that followed the first, hoarse and almost rabid. Garrett’s skin crawled and he fought the wave of dizziness that overcame him, suddenly unsure if the noises were just the agony in his head or if they existed in reality. Were those screams the prisoners? They hardly sounded human. This began a chorus of howls that echoed all around the narrow passageway, the barrage of sound making Garrett’s head pound. He was glad that the prisoners in his own cell block had not been so deranged.

“Oi, shut your gobs!”

That was most definitely human. It was not all in his head, then. A loud clamor rang over the howling voices of the prisoners and eventually the hallway fell silent once more. Only then could Garrett breathe, the ache in his head subsiding.

This hallway was not going to be as simple to traverse as the previous one had. An idea sparked in his mind. It went against everything he had trained himself to be, but it seemed to be his only option.

Garrett opened his mouth and yelled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! This is the start of once a week updates. I'll try my best to keep this schedule but no guarantees, especially in November when ALL my school projects happen.


	16. Chapter 16

Garrett’s yell echoed down the silent hallway. A heartbeat passed, two. Immediate regret sunk into his stomach. What had he done? He had just purposefully given himself away. The guard was going to find him, throw him back into that cell, make him just as deranged as the other prisoners and-

The hallway burst into noise. The bars almost seemed to rattle with the deafening commotion. The yells of the guard could hardly be heard over the shrieking of the prisoners. Then the guard emerged, waving his arms around in a futile attempt to settle the prisoners. His mistake was getting near one of the cell doors. Hands flew out from behind the bars and grabbed his uniform, clawing at whatever they could. Next the guard had a wooden bat in his hand and he was beating the grasping arms. Whatever sick noise of bones crunching beneath the merciless bat was drowned out by the continued wailing of the other prisoners.

Garrett did not miss his opportunity to slip past the guard while he was busy subduing the prisoner. The door at the end of the hallway was fortunately unlocked and the squeal of the hinges was all but silent in the face of the wild cries of the prisoners.

With the heavy door securely closed behind him and the noise only a distant muffle, Garrett looked at his new surroundings. His vision blurred at the edges as he turned his head; not a good sign. He had to make a hasty exit lest he lose consciousness and be caught again.

In this room there used to be some sort of structure that had long since fallen, the corroded metal bars laying haphazard in the middle of the room. There were no guards in that room. But what stood in front of him was a much larger problem. Quite literally. In the high arched doorway a heavy iron gate prevented any passage. Even if it were not locked there was no way Garrett was strong enough to lift it. The word _weak_ drifted across his mind but he quickly brushed it off. No man of any stature would be able to lift it, he reassured himself, let alone someone still recovering from a heavy blow to the head.

Brushing aside the renewed throb at the back of his head and his blurring vision, Garrett glanced about the room. There were two square pits, one on either side. One was covered with an iron grate while the other appeared to have corroded away and fallen. Just what kind of prison was this? It almost seemed abandoned and it looked to be much older than the buildings he was used to. No, Garrett thought. It was almost the same stonework that the chapel had. Perhaps the stories about The City being rebuilt atop older versions was true.

Garrett shoved aside his ponderings, much more pressing issues at hand. He needed to find a way to get past the gate. High above there appeared to be a heavy locking mechanism, though the gears were rusted and barely looked moveable. No, it had to open somehow. The Watchmen had to be able to traverse to the lower levels. Garrett just had to figure out how.

That was when he traced a pipe from the heavy locking mechanism down and just to the left… There. A switch on the wall. Garrett swiftly pulled it and flinched as the gears squealed into motion, the floor rumbling. He hoped the prisoners in the cell block behind him were still causing a ruckus. If not he was as good as hung.

The grate eventually screeched to a halt halfway open. Not taking any chances, Garrett quickly slipped under and not a moment too soon as it almost immediately began closing again.

With that obstacle behind him, Garrett allowed his ponderings to continue. Either The City was in worse economic state than Garrett knew or this was a prison long out of use and only recently opened up to fresh prisoners. Were they running out of room in the other prisons? The stone floor beneath him shuddered as the gate closed behind him, shaking him into motion. He did not have time to ponder.

Another set of stairs led him into a room with huge pipes extending to the tall ceiling, some with more rusted and corroded holes than actual metal. There was a metal walkway high up and stairs to his left. That was the easy part. It was the two sets of footsteps echoing up the tall stone walls that worried Garrett. He hid in the shadows and observed as two Watchmen made their rounds about the lofty walkway.

If he timed it right, he could just- _now_. On light feet Garrett stepped up the metal staircase, soft and oiled leather foot coverings muffling his footsteps. Before the two guards could make their way back in his direction, he stole into the back passageway. Heart thundering in his chest and an equal force pounding in his head, he waited as the two guards walked past behind the pillar he stood by, not daring to breathe lest he give himself away. Once their echoing footsteps were distant enough he swiftly crept to the right. He turned the corner and immediately shifted back.

Three. There were three guards. This one was just sitting at a desk.

“What?”

Garrett froze, trying to tuck himself behind the rusted pipe reaching to the ceiling. Stupid. He was rushing. He knew better than to rush. But the pounding in his head urged him on, stole his good judgment. He was being sloppy in an unknown place with an exit seemingly far out of reach.

He needed to be back on the streets, back in the shadows that he knew. These shadows… they only offered the illusion of safety. They offered no solace but to one about to hang by the neck.

Agonizing moments passed as Garrett waited for the guard to step around the corner, to find him, to toss him back in the cage or to just kill him outright. If they found him they would never let him escape. Not alive.

Garrett flinched as the guard let out a sigh. “Nah, just a shadow. It’s too late for this shit.”

And he fell silent.

Only then did Garrett dare move, brushing off the brief moment of relief and stepping in the opposite direction of the guard. There was another tunnel at his right, but upon a quick inspection it had caved in long before. That meant his only way was to continue up, and up the stairs he went. This time he noticed a shadow spread on the ground, framed by the doorway. It flickered with the torchlight but it was unmistakable. Garrett would recognize that helmeted silhouette anywhere.

The Watchman stood between him and the front gate. He could barely make out the dark street beyond. That was safety; the streets he knew so well would welcome him, conceal him. But that Watchman was another matter entirely.

Garrett melted into the shadows, weighing his options. He could try to sneak behind the man and use his- no. Garrett’s stomach dropped to the floor. That guard with the hoarse laugh still had his blackjack. He gritted his teeth, berating himself for being so forgetful. Going back was not an option. He could always get a new blackjack but he could not get his life back if he were caught… again.

That left him with his second option. Distraction. Garrett tucked himself away into the deep shadow just beside the door and plunged a hand into his loot sack. The ink bottle would have to do. He could stand the loss of a few coins if it meant his freedom.

With a swift toss, the ink bottle soared down the stairs, smashing brilliantly on the wall and leaving a pretty black smear on the old stone.

“Hey, what was that?” The Watchman called out. Sure enough, he emerged through the walkway and turned to the stairs. It was a close thing, but Garrett slipped past him and to the iron gate. A swift tug at a switch, the grind of gears, and he was through.

The cool wind of the early morning struck Garrett and he stopped in his tracks for the briefest moment. He had done it. He had escaped the prison where no man supposedly ever could without being killed. Then again, Garrett was not just any man. Just as quickly as he had stopped, Garrett started up again. Surely the guard with the hoarse laugh had noticed his disappearance by then, unless he was blinder than Garrett originally thought. Better not put anything to chance.

Garrett made his way swiftly away from the prison, melting into the shadows that seemed to welcome him back in a dark embrace. That was when Garrett finally glanced around, recognizing the buildings surrounding him. South Quarter. He was in South Quarter. That realization floored him. He had been caught in Auldale. Why had they brought him all the way here? Were the prisons so full that they had to open up one long out of commission? Garrett shook his head and continued on his way. It was late and his head was already pounding. He needed to rest, to recover.

Garrett hardly had to look to see where he was going, the streets so familiar that his body simply took him where he needed to go. Home. He needed to go home, curl up in his musty mattress and sleep surrounded by his treasured books. Garrett felt like he could sleep for a week.

He slid down the tiled roof above the sewer, vaulting over the low passageway and up to the balcony that contained his humble, small room.

Something was wrong.

Garrett could not quite tell what it was. The smell of the sewer was as nauseating as ever, the surrounding buildings seeming to stoop over and watch him with a challenging gaze. These Garrett could push aside. Then he came to realize what it was that put him off. It was the shadows. They were deeper than before, a lingering malice setting him on edge. Garrett shook himself. It was just the effects of the prison still clinging to him, his injured head putting strange thoughts where they should not be. He was tired, hyperaware, putting malice where there was none. He was used to catching himself doing so on many occasions. This was just another one of them.

But the feeling did not dissipate no matter how he tried to push it aside. Indeed, as he crept closer to his abode the feeling only got stronger. Now there was a different scent drifting above the heavy stink of sewage. Smoke. Damp, black smoke. Garrett’s breath caught in his throat and it was not just from the grating smell of burning.

He knew what it was before he even saw the char and dust, but he dared not believe it. No. He was safe. He was always safe in his home. He had been safe there for eight years.

The door stood ajar, broken hinges creaking as the morning breeze wafted through and pushed it lazily to and fro. Dread filled Garrett even before he stepped through, a deep, cold stone slowly sinking through his chest. The walls were black, dust swirling about in calm drifts.

He was safe. He was always safe there.

He had been safe.

There was nothing left. Just piles of ash congealing into a thick black mud. Someone had put out the fire. How courteous.

Garrett stood in the barren, black room, all his treasures missing and his precious books gone up in smoke. Only a corner of his mattress was still intact, though sopping with water.

He had never been safe.

Garrett turned away from the destruction, something tightening in his chest, making his senses blaze alive. He forgot about his throbbing head, then only feeling the sting of ash and stale smoke in his eyes. Or was it even that?

That was when a point of white caught his attention. A single beacon of pristine white in a cave of black and gloom. It was a scrap of paper secured to the charred wall. Across it a heavy scrawl spelled out just a few simple words that left an aching, cold hole in Garrett’s gut.

_We see you._

Before Garrett could even think to run, he was out of the room and halfway across South Quarter. The note seemed to burn in his pocket. They knew him. They saw him. But who were _they_?

It seemed that rest would have to wait.

Garrett made his way north, keeping as close to the shadows as he could. The City was just barely waking up and that meant more eyes that could spot him. The light sky felt like it scorched Garrett’s eyes, the stabbing pain in his head returned in full force. But he could not stop. He could not rest when he knew he was in danger. Someone had found him. They could be watching him right then and Garrett was in no state to react. He was stumbling over his own feet, vision wavering. He could barely move, how would he be able to escape or fight back if he got caught?

He found himself at the wide alleyway below Basso’s apartment, not sure when he had decided to go there. He looked up and, sure enough, there was a gentle flicker of light emitting from the top window. At least his fence was someone he could tentatively rely on. If nothing else, he was always open for business with good coin.

Not having the energy or the confidence in his strength to climb up to the window as he usually did, Garrett made for the door. After a quick turn with his lockpicks he pressed his way in, automatically lifting the door to relieve the hinges from stress and make his passage silent. He stepped carefully up the stairs and picked the lock and again lifted the door just slightly to silence his entrance into Basso’s small apartment. Even so, the slight creak caught Basso’s attention and he looked up from his desk. By the looks of it, he had been more focused on dozing than the papers before him.

“Hey Garrett,” Basso greeted, wiping the sleep from his eye. “You’re a bit…” that was when he finally looked up and saw Garrett. He scowled as worry crossed Basso’s brow. “Late,” he finished, still intently peering at Garrett. “What happened to you?”

“I broke out of Pavelock Prison in the South Quarter.” Garrett stepped closer but remained out of the circle of light cast by the single candle. It did not make much difference as the morning light was already beginning to stream through the windows. Still, it was a habit. He glanced to the window, half expecting to find the silhouette of a man looking in. Finding nothing but the lightening sky beyond the warped glass, he let his attention wander back to the fence.

Basso continued to peer at him but then seemed to recall something and his eyes widened. This man was so easy to read, never once masking his emotions. It was one of the reasons why Garrett found that he could let his guard fall around him. “Wait, that was you? You’re the phantom prisoner they are whispering about?”

Garrett did not respond for a long, drawn out moment. When he did his voice was soft. He could tell that he was losing strength fast and he had little of that to begin with. “Word spreads quickly.”

“Damn I thought it might’ve been you. Keep pulling stunts like that and you’ll get a reputation.” It was not quite praise. Something lingered in that peering gaze that Garrett could hardly identify, but it was plain on the man’s face.

Garrett shifted his weight from one leg to the other, letting his eyes slip to the side. His vision blurred slightly but he fought his way past it. “I think I already have a reputation. Someone found me.”

“Ah, the sneak thief got a little too comfortable?” Garrett glared at him, some lingering sting in the fence’s voice growing stronger as he spoke. “Hey don’t give me that look. I’ve seen thieves bigger and better than you get black hands. You know what got them? Arrogance.”

“I’m not-”

“Like hell you’re not,” Basso spat, that lingering sting emerging into a full burst of growling anger. Garrett tried his best to not flinch at the ferocity of it and was not entirely successful. Basso sighed, the bite in his voice abating but the fire in his accusing gaze far from gone. “Look, you want to know a little something I heard? You know the Thief’s Guild?”

Garrett narrowed his gaze. “What about it?”

Basso continued, tone dark. “You think you have a reputation? You don’t know the half of it. They know about you, Garrett. They’ve seen you and they’ve taken enough notice of you to put you down in their books.”

“What are you getting at?” His patience was wearing thin, throbbing head putting him on edge.

“I’m saying that guild has a way of pulling strings. Dangerous strings. Strings of information about a certain thief they don’t like breaking into a house in their territory.”

“Are you telling me that the Thief’s Guild was the reason that guard found me?”

“Are you telling me you didn’t think that might’ve been the case?” Basso shot right back.

Garrett found that again he could not meet the fence’s hard stare. Why did he feel so meek? He felt a child, getting taught a lesson that he should have learned years ago. He thought he had already learned it. Apparently not. “I figured they had just gotten a Watchman to look after house that I didn’t notice. Plenty of them have personal guards.”

Basso grunted, “You figured wrong. There’s a lot you still don’t know about this city, Garrett. It’s time you learned.”

This man was barely a decade older than him. Who was he to tell Garrett how to live his life? A flash of anger came across Garrett and he did his best to suppress it, only partially successful. His vision wavered and what little patience he still had was growing thinner by the minute. “Are you going to teach me?”

Basso crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “Well who else is going to help your scrawny ass? You haven’t made many friends in the past few years. More enemies than anything.”

“Enemies?” The note was beginning to make more sense.

Basso shook his head, at a loss. “See, you don’t even know that.”

“I keep to myself.”

“Not well enough.”

“Apparently not.”

Basso continued his hard stare. “Wait, so you didn’t know that the Thief’s Guild had tipped off you being in that house. How do you know you have a reputation?”

“They left me this.” Garrett pulled out the note and ventured into the candlelight to set in front of his fence.

Basso took it up and gave it a quick read. “‘We see you.’ Yeah, so?”

Garrett let out a long breath before he spoke, hating how soft his voice was. “They burned my home and left that for me. The guild must not trust me to die so easily at the hands of the Watch.”

“Shit.” With that one word the gravity of the situation finally struck home.

Garrett felt as though the weight of The City came down upon his shoulders, exhaustion closely following. To put off the mental barrage of questioning what he was supposed to do next, he did the only thing he could think. The only normal thing left for him to do. He pulled the bag of loot off of his shoulder and placed it on the table. “What can you give me for these?” He barely cared that his voice sounded so hollow.

Basso did not even give the bag a passing glance. “Look Garrett, if you need a place to stay-”

“I can find my own way,” Garrett cut him off sharply, wincing as his head throbbed.

“Sure, sure you can.” The fence did not sound convinced. Garrett was not quite convinced himself, but he stood by his statement all the same.

“The bag, Basso.”

“Alright, alright,” Basso grumbled and dumped the contents on top of his desk. He did not even seem to look at it before he responded. “I’ll give you three hundred for the lot.”

Annoyance spread through Garrett’s hollow chest. “You’re a business man, Basso, not a charity.”

Basso sighed, leaning on an arm and staring intently at the thief. His expression was so sincere that it caught Garrett for a moment, tugging at something in his gut. Whatever that feeling was he quickly suppressed it. “Garrett you look like shit, your house was burned down, and you are on the bad side of one of the more powerful guilds in The City.”

“I don’t need charity. Give me what it’s worth,” Garrett insisted, finding that he yet again could not meet the man’s gaze.

“Fine, fine.” Basso sighed and muttered under his breath as he opened a drawer in his desk and shuffled around in it. “Here.” Garrett received a handful of coins, one hundred and twenty if he could still count in the state he was in. It was a fair price. “Now go get some rest someplace where the guild won’t find you.”

Garrett tucked away his earnings, thinking only briefly on the fact that yet again he only had those few coins to his name. He would have to start from scratch. It did not matter. He had done it before with fewer skills and knowledge. He could do it again. “They won’t find me again.”

“Better hope not. I’ll try to keep the guild members off your tail.”

But Garrett was already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for still reading my little fic! Stay tuned for next week's chapter!


	17. Chapter 17

The Thief’s Guild knew him, knew his face, knew the places he frequented. Nowhere was safe. Garrett needed to disappear, that much was clear to him. Fortunately there was no lack of places to hide away in The City. Garrett just needed to find one where the guild would not find him.

Despite having lived on the streets and explored The City for more than a decade, there were still many places he had yet to explore. Still many places where his face was unknown. The Old Quarter was an option. It was removed and the streets so poorly planned that it was a relative maze of places to hide. But it would not have the best resources available to him and the residents there were poor as dirt. No use stealing from people who also were sometimes forced to steal to get by. That left Garrett with Dayport. Not as filthy rich as Auldale but wealthy enough that resources would not be scarce.

So Garrett made his decision and headed northwest. He passed through the heavy wooden gate and came to unfamiliar territory. After so many years of traversing the same pathways it was almost a relief to get a new challenge.

_If only my head would stop hurting I might be able to enjoy this._

It was a fleeting thought. He was in danger and he had to keep vigilant. That was not much of a problem usually, but he was exhausted, the sun was making his dark attire do the opposite of its intended use of concealing him, and his vision continued to waver. He was pressed for time, his body at its limit and there were unfriendly eyes on alert.

It was a hard thing, keeping his footsteps silent on the clay rooftop tiles in the state he was in. Still, if he moved quickly he would be gone before any curious gazes wandered in his direction. Pipes wound their way around the rooftops, some large enough that Garrett could easily crawl through them if the opportunity ever presented itself. Apparently the Baron’s new factories had a much larger impact in this part of The City. Beside those pipes, lavishly decorated flower pots stood about, detailed adornments decorated the railings. It was an odd juxtaposition to say the least; industry nestled so close to lavish decoration that very few got to see.

It was a waste. Garrett pressed on, a glance to his left revealing a plaza with a fountain in the middle, the street already bustling with commerce. Greystone Plaza, Garrett recalled the name having seen it on a map he had collected years ago. That hollowness in his chest returned. He would have to gather and make more maps; all the ones he had accrued over the years had burned. Though it did not much matter. He was not planning on returning to any of those apartments he had already stolen from. He should have known better than to become so familiar with those places, especially when they were in the guild’s territory. It had only been a matter of time before he was recognized and drew attention.

Garrett eventually made his way down and off of the roofs, away from the residential district and towards the shops. He remained in the alleyways, avoiding the busy streets. Garrett was glad to be out of the sun; the glare off of the white plaster had hurt his eyes, redoubling the stab in his head. Safely back in the shadows Garrett searched for any shelter he could find. He was stumbling over his feet by then, fatigue and his pounding head getting the better of him. Not soon enough he came across an alcove behind a shop, broken wagon wheels tossed haphazardly about and making the perfect place to hole up for the day.

He was careful to pull his cloak over himself, concealing his sleeping form from any wandering eye. Garrett shut his eyes, too tired to even care if his hiding spot was not the safest.

A resounding, sharp, repeating clanging eventually pulled Garrett from the depths of sleep. As soon as the noise registered to his higher consciousness, he jolted upright, frantically pulling the cloak off of his head. When he looked about and saw broken wooden spokes bathed in golden light instead of corroding metal bars with a guard standing beyond, something in his chest released. He was not in that prison. All that had not been a dream. For the first time he could recall, Garrett was glad it had not been a dream. He had escaped, had found his way to safety. Yet his home…

He put the thought aside. He had never owned it. He never owned anything. Not the trinkets he found too fascinating to sell, not the precious books he had collected and read until the spines cracked. He stole what was not his and eventually The City took it back. The City always took it back.

Garrett pulled himself up carefully, taking note of the distant throb at the back of his head. At least his vision was as sharp as ever and the wave of vertigo that he had been expecting never passed through him. That rhythmic clang continued on and as Garrett made his way out of the alcove he eventually found the source. It was a large, open workshop. A forge burned brightly in the corner, so hot that Garrett could feel the heat on his cheeks even though he stood on the street. A hulking man was beating something on a huge anvil, red sparks issuing upon every strike of his hammer. He must have been doing that all day. It was a marvel that it had not woken Garrett before.

Garrett finally realized just what the workshop was. A smithy. Garrett glanced to the opposite side of the workshop, hides of every shape and color hanging, tools that Garrett did not recognize in neat arrangement. Not only a smithy but also a leather workshop. Convenient.

The sky eventually darkened, the smith continuing his work. Eventually as Garrett looked on, the smith put the red piece of metal he was pounding in a barrel of water and was briefly obscured by a cloud of steam. When it cleared the man was already busy cleaning up. Once he had retreated behind a wooden door, presumably leading to his residence, Garrett ventured into the shop. There was little of value there, the tools sturdy but nothing he could sell. That was not the reason he looked, but the thought was never far away. He needed new tools. Not only a new blackjack, but something more substantial to defend himself with. If Garrett had enemies, he had to be able to defend himself with something other than a blunt object.

Alongside blades of various states of completeness were other unfinished weapons. Crossbows without the wooden prods, knives without handles, arrow tips without shafts. There were many other parts that he could not identify and he caught himself wishing he could reference one of the books that had burned the night before. Garrett continued on and came across a large chest, the lock easy to pick. Within he found weapons that were just waiting to be sent to the vendor to be sold. He shifted through the jumble, swords and crossbows of every make he pushed aside. One item caught Garrett’s attention: a simple wooden bow with an ornate metal handle.

He took it up, examining it, weighing his options. It was lighter than a crossbow, easier and quicker to use. It would also be much quieter. Garrett dug around in the chest more until he found a rawhide drawstring, a quiver and a bundle of arrows. Satisfied with his find, Garrett shut the chest and moved on before the smith decided that he needed to return. He put the bow inside the quiver and strapped it on his back. The new blackjack would have to wait until he found a woodcarver’s shop.

With a means to defend himself though without the skill to use it, Garrett went out in search for the next thing on his list: someplace for him to sleep that was not a dirty alleyway where he could easily be found. He looked up to the second story above the workshop, a warm glow emitting from a window. A twist of envy gripped him before he could suppress it. That was not his life. It never could be his life. Even with this knowledge, he felt that hollow pit in his heart ache. Despite his best efforts to push it away, it had done nothing but grow over the years. Garrett was used to numbing it, tamping it down in favor of focusing on more pressing issues. Like finding places where he could crawl to see just where they led.

Like that dusty window. Garrett squinted up at it, sitting atop the second story building just opposite the smithy. Upon closer inspection, the glass in the top panel was shattered, tattered drapes wafting inside. That was someplace that not often tended to. An attic long gone forgotten. There was a short balcony standing before it and it was upon this that Garrett tossed his grappling hook. He tugged it to make sure it was secure and began his climb.

The window did not even need the assistance of his crowbar to open, the wood frame loose on the track. Garrett was not sure it even had a lock to begin with. When his leathered feet landed on the old wood flooring, a large cloud of dust hushed out from beneath him. The small attic was sparse, only a few empty crates littered about.

Garrett crept forward, careful with the placement of his feet just in case he came upon a trap. Fatigue was already pulling at him, the now familiar ache at the back of his head returning. He did not have much time before he would be forced to rest. Better to make sure he was safe in the obviously abandoned house before he settled down. He adjusted the quiver over his shoulder as he crouched to the attic’s door on the floor. As he opened it the hinges gave way, the metal little more than a shell of rust. Garrett gently placed it to the side, peering down to the floor below. It was just as dark as the attic.

Taking a chance he lowered himself through the opening and landed softly on the hardwood below. The air was close, stuffy. It almost seemed to muffle Garrett’s senses, or perhaps that was the ache in his head. He stopped and listened. No sound. Not even the soft crackle of a dying fire in a hearth. Something crept through him, a feeling just below his perception. It swept through him like a whisper too quiet to discern, though the message was gravely important.

The floorboards creaked beneath him no matter how gently he stepped. He tried the first door he came across. The handle turned easily enough, but it took a shoulder to the door to get it to budge, the door and frame seeming to have warped together.

Garrett stopped.

Moonlight streamed through a small window.

It cut through the stuffy, undisturbed dark. The room was in shambles but an unsettling calm fell over Garrett as he took it in.

The perfect rectangle on the floor, describing just how far into the night it was based on how close it was to the wall, reminding him that there was still light even in the darkest times of night.

Garrett pulled in a breath, more of a shuddering gasp. His whole body shook. He knew what the whisper was, he knew the feeling that had passed through him. It was the gentle voice of his mother, telling him it was okay to fall back asleep. It was the echo of his father’s great, booming laugh that had always reverberated in his chest.

It was the loud crash, the shriek, those heavy boots walking up the stairs, those hard voices speaking in hushed tones as they stood over two bodies covered in a bloody sheet.

The whisper was also the feel of death that hung heavy over the air, stuck to his lungs, constricted his breath until he choked from it. He was again that crying child, still unsure about what it meant for someone to die, innocent of the horrors that life could bring while others died around him. He was the boy drowning in the bay, the boy mourning the death of his only friend. He was that child in the mirror, so hopeless and fragile, too innocent to survive in the harshness of The City.

But now _he_ was the murderer. He was the one with blood on his hands. He was the one who could not prevent the death of the only boy he had dared call friend. He was the one hunted because he had been too headstrong, too comfortable. He was the one cast out by the beggars, left to scrape up a life for himself.

The child looking so hopefully up at that same pure beam of moonlight was gone. In his place was a man who had turned to the shadows, still so young, still so naïve, with so much filth on his hands that he never could scrub it away.

After all those years of hoping the nightmare would end, that he would wake up to find that moonlight streaming through the small window and the soft footsteps of his parents stepping in to check on him… Garrett finally woke up.

He woke up and found that the nightmare was real. It had always been real.

Garrett ran.

Before he knew it, he had scrambled back into the attic, out the window, and was back on the street. Something in the back of his mind reminded him to retrieve his grappling hook and he did so. And he ran again. His new bow and quiver slapped on his back, reminding him each time of just why he was there, just who he had become.

_Murderer_ , it said, _thief, child, arrogant, naïve._

He had made another mistake, become someone with a reputation and a need to protect himself using deadly force if necessary. It sickened him, a scorching pain rising in his throat like bile.

Garrett’s head throbbed, vision blurring once again… or were those tears?

He ran until his legs could carry him no more and the ache in his head sent waves of stabbing pain through every part of his body. Garrett collapsed in a narrow alleyway, the stench of sewage and garbage almost a comfort to him after the lingering, clinging smell of stagnant death. It was all he could do to take the quiver off of his shoulder before his body gave out. He lay on the cold cobblestones, only thinking to cover his face to hide the tears he could no longer hold back. He could not move, could not make a sound, that crushing pain in his chest almost overpowering the stabbing in his head.

The only relief he got was in sleep. Only this time he knew there was no nightmare to wake up from. It simply waited to return when he next opened his eyes.

\---

It was dark when he woke. It was impossible to tell if it was the same night or the next. Regardless, Garrett hardly felt rested. Every part of him felt heavy. He rolled to face the wall of the alleyway, perfectly content to sleep for another day. That was until the bow he had taken dug into his side. The sting of just why he needed it was just as strong as it had been before.

The nightmare had returned.

Garrett steeled. This is who he had become. He was no longer that terrified child, shivering in his bed while his parents were murdered. He was no longer that child in the mirror, the boy drowning in the bay. It was no use lamenting the loss of that innocence, the history of suffering that still hung over his shoulders like the shrouds they placed over the dead.

The City had always taken from him, taken his parents from him, taken his only friend, taken everything that he had ever claimed as his own. But it had not taken him. Not yet.

It was as if that heavy weight lifted from him all at once. Garrett stood, feeling lighter than he had in days. He strapped the bow and quiver to his back. He kept close to the shadows, the only things in The City he could rely upon besides himself.

The shadows. That was the only thing The City could not take away from him, but rather provided in droves. It was not much, but it was enough. Garrett could provide the rest.

He crept about the shadows and eventually stumbled upon Greystone Plaza. The circular plaza was lined with shops, bold window displays showing off anything from pantry goods to textiles. It was the latter that caught Garrett’s attention. He needed something that would help him cover his identity, conceal him deeper into those shadows he relied so heavily on. A quick turn with his lockpicks and he was in the dark shop. Lavish clothing hung all about the shop, the room awash in vivid colors even in the dark. It certainly was a step up from taking clothing off of clotheslines. Rows and rows of hanging garments stood about the narrow shop, but Garrett was on an errand for a specific item. The Thief’s Guild knew his face. It was time he aided the shadows in concealing his identity.

It was on a rack of scarves that he found an item that would suit his needs. A black silk scarf with faint grey lines. Garrett tucked it around his neck and pulled it up to cover the lower half of his face. It was light enough that it did not impede his breathing and if he secured it just so, would not fall unintentionally. Satisfied with his find, Garrett went to the cash register and quickly emptied it before departing.

Garrett slipped through the empty streets, the soft brush of silk on his cheeks and chin a reassurance that his pale skin would not reveal his location in the dark like a beacon. He did not care where he went so long as he was carried by those shadows.

It was only when he came to stop in front of that one place in the whole of The City that he desired the least to be that he finally felt exposed. Not exposed to others, but something opened up in his chest, filled him with a flood of emotions he could not begin to identify. He was exposed to himself and he was terrified.

Garrett wanted to run, to escape and forget that lingering, haunting beast that he had concealed behind that heavy iron door in his mind. He wanted to brush it away like another nightmare.

But something made him step forward. Something made him take out his lockpicks.

Garrett steeled himself and finally, after fourteen years of desiring and detesting returning to that abode, he opened the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, finally Garrett is confronting the nightmare of his past.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made fanart for myself for this chapter. Here, look! [YAY ART](http://lorcadraws.tumblr.com/post/98575557279/i-just-really-wanted-to-draw-a-scene-from-chapter)

The whispers returned in full force as soon as Garrett closed the door behind him. Echoes of a childhood lost to him, memories he could never quite grasp drifting about like the haze of mist clinging to the streets just as dawn touched the sky. They fleeted before him, his very presence seeming to make them retreat.

Garrett struggled to pull a breath, that close air again constricting his throat. It felt wrong. He looked about what used to be the living room, the floors bare where a carpet once stood, furniture either missing or in such a state of disrepair Garrett could hardly identify what they once were. The hearth stood blackened and cold. He ventured a step forward, that unsettling feeling persisting. There was something, some fleeting memory that he could hardly recall that tugged at him.

He ventured further into the house, the walls feeling closer than they should. It was like walking into a dream he had long ago, but everything was just a little bit smaller, a little bit darker.

That was it. The dark. It had never been dark. Even in the deepest part of night there had always been light, something that kept the nightmares at bay. A candle lit, the hearth glowing deep red, the moonlight streaming in through a window. Now there was no such protection. No candle stood on the empty mantelpiece, no warmth graced the hearth. The windows, what was not boarded up, were covered with heavy drapes. No light had permeated that thick black in years. Normally Garrett drew comfort from the shadows, but these unsettled him, crawled over his skin just as those distant memories crept over him when he least expected it. Those memories were now a swarm, sweeping through him in a barrage that he could hardly keep at bay.

He needed light like his lungs needed fresh air. It was the desperate craving of a child frightened by the shapes the shadows made in the night. A quick look about the hearth revealed no firewood and Garrett very much doubted there were any candles left in the house. By the look of it, it had been picked clean time and again over the years by scavengers and petty thieves. Garrett wondered briefly if the Thief’s Guild had condoned it. Yet another reason to mistrust them. Stealing from the dead until all that was left was shambles.

Garrett sighed.

_Might as well finish up the job_.

After all, this had once been his home. If anyone had a right to use what was left of it, it was him.

He gathered what used to be the furniture of his distant past and piled it in the long-cold hearth. Soon the sparse room had a low, flickering glow. The crackle of flame gave the room more life but it was far from the distant memory that lingered somewhere deep in Garrett’s past. Only then did Garrett look upon the spot of the floor where he had last seen the bodies of his parents. There was no dark stain on the floor, no smeared dark brown footprints of a child being dragged away from everything he knew and loved. It was as if the entire horror of his past was but a nightmare.

But Garrett had woken from that. It had been a fantasy that had pulled him through his childhood but he could not rely on it anymore. He was a man grown and he could no longer shove it away behind that iron door and pretend it had been a dream. There was no more running.

He lowered his hood, took off his new silk mask. His leather footwear was next followed by his cloak. It felt like he was shedding the layers of defenses he had built up around himself, that armor he had made that kept even himself blind to who he was, who he had become.

Who he found beneath all those layers was not someone he wanted to be. It was the person he had been trying to hide, trying his best to move on from.

He was still but a child in all but body, still that trembling child in the closet, still that helpless boy in the mirror. Garrett observed himself and found himself to be weak and it sickened him.

After fourteen years, Garrett finally got the wish he had made that first night in the orphanage. He had come home. Only this was not the home he remembered. This was but an empty shell, a ghost of what his childhood had been. What little warmth he remembered was long gone. Never again could it go back to how it was before. So like the house, so like his life.

The familiar weight of guilt fell upon him then. His parents, Matt, that man in the apartment… those things he could never change. Those events were as much part of himself as was the dark scruff on his chin: both a constant annoyance and something that needed tending on a regular basis. Only his past was just something that he could never get past, no matter how tightly he locked that iron door. No. Garrett shook himself. There was no running, no locking it up anymore. He had to force himself to learn that it was all a part of him and it always had been. There was no locking it away because he had already become it.

He was that boy still shivering in bed while his parents were murdered, he was still that boy cowering in the orphanage too afraid to stand up to his friend and convince him escape alongside him. He was still that young man with the table knife dripping with blood, an old man dead at his feet. He was still that arrogant thief too caught up in his own skills and deaf to threats. It was simply a part of him, part of his past that was unchangeable.

Unbeknownst to him he had become someone, even though he strove in all things to be a ghost. Unseen, just another shadow, an urchin struggling for life below the notice of those who would capture him and put him in his place.

He had always been a burden, no matter how he tried to distance himself and be independent. That burden had hurt people, hurt himself. So he became even more one with the shadows, relying only on his own strength and will. But still there had been casualties and no matter how he tried to push them away they still haunted his every step.

Garrett set his teeth, a shudder passing through him. He had mourned enough. All that was left was to work with what he had in front of him. It was not much, just a bag of coin, a bow he did not know how to use, his tools, and himself.

No, that was not all. He had this empty house, the fire before him. Those provided shelter and warmth, a place to hide until the Thief’s Guild stopped looking for him. A place for him to practice working with his bow just in case the need to defend himself arose.

That house had once been a place of safety, a place of warmth. It could provide that to him still, if he could withstand the lingering memories of a childhood, of innocence long lost.

Garrett, that ghost of a man still haunted by his past and yet just beginning to understand that it was a part of him and something to be learned from and not shoved away, sat on the floor before the fire, letting the heat fill him. For the first time in fourteen years Garrett felt warm.

\---

_Twang. Thud._

_Twang. Thud._

Just one more _._

_Twing. Crack._

Garrett lowered the bow, his arms falling limp with fatigue. He glared at the shafts littering the floor of the living room before him. Some were barely a pace away while others had made it all the way to the far wall. He rubbed his stinging eyes, knowing that dawn would not be long in coming. His arms ached, a feeling not so unusual. It was like he was learning how to climb all over again, only this time all he had to do was shoot wooden shafts across the room. Nothing so simple had any right to be that difficult.

In climbing he had to train his whole body to move, to train his mind to see three steps in front of him even before he took the first leap. That came to him like second nature. But this…

Garrett tossed down the bow and returned to the open book beside the hearth, the fire quickly dying. By that dwindling light he flipped through the pages. He was holding the bow just like the illustration, pulling back just where it said to pull back. So why was he missing the target? The target being a scrap of red cloth he had tacked to the far wall. Thus far he had not managed to even cause it to stir.

Next he removed the bracer from his left forearm, a handy thing he had read about after he had suffered three nights of scraping and bruising his skin with the bowstring. That had made his life less miserable during his long nights of practice, but he still was not getting the arrows anywhere near his target.

He was exhausted. He had not been out on the streets in weeks and his food supplies were running low. Garrett went to the corner where his food supply was stashed and took up a package of dried meat, returning to his book to pour over the pages for what felt like the hundredth time.

Notch while bow is lowered, draw as you sweep it up to point at the target, rest the shaft on left index finger, keep elbow high, aim, and loose. How could something so simple be so complex? Garrett slammed the book shut in frustration, suddenly realizing how ravenous he was and began eating his dinner in earnest. He turned away from that accursed book and prodded the dying fire, wondering if he should put another piece of wood on it and keep practicing. That notion was immediately set aside as even the motion of bringing the food to his mouth was a struggle. His arms shook and even his vision wavered from concentrating so long.

He would just have to rest and try again later. Hunger sated, Garrett set about collecting the arrows off the floor. There had to be something he did not understand, something that was holding him back. As far as he could tell, his form was perfect. So what was it?

Garrett tossed the arrows down in a bout of frustration, retreating to the simple mattress he had scrounged up from the attic and shoved in the corner of the one room he occupied in the house. He fell upon it, watching as the glowing embers of the fire cast dancing red light across the worn wooden floor. In all the weeks he had lived there, it was still only the bottom floor where he felt comfortable. He rarely entered the kitchen off around the corner and the upstairs bedrooms gave him a sick turn in his stomach. There was something too unsettling about venturing into the bedroom of his dead parents and he even felt as though his own bedroom belonged to someone long gone.

Exhaustion pulled at Garrett and he felt himself sinking deeper into the mattress, curling in on himself. This place was hardly as comfortable as his old home and it felt too large and sparse. The whispers of the past were never far off, though the warm fire appeared to stave them off well enough. At least the heavy feel of death had worn off.

Garrett allowed his eyes to become unfocused, the scatter of arrows across the floor casting long shadows in the dying light. Something caught his eye, bringing him back from the lull that was attempting to pull him to sleep. That was not a trick of the light. The arrows were bent.

He stood in one swift motion, ignoring the ache in his arms, and picked up the closest arrow. It was too dark. He moved to the window and pushed aside the heavy drape just enough to let in a beam of light from the new dawn. The realization hit him like a smack upside the head. He had been so stupid, so careless. The shaft he held was splintered, fractures in the wood running all down its length. Even the feathers at the end were in shambles. Garrett tossed the arrow down and retrieved another. It was in a similar state of disrepair.

Garrett reeled. Nowhere in the book of archery technique had he read about the fragility of arrows. Why had he not thought of it until then? He tossed the arrow down and was not surprised when the impact made the shaft split into two, the wood springing apart. He growled in frustration. Was that the reason he had missed all the shots he had taken in the previous weeks? Were the arrows the reason for his frustration? In a bout of fury he kicked at the arrows and scattered them further about the floor. They clattered about unsatisfactorily and Garrett threw himself down on the mattress.

Stupid. He had not checked the arrows for damage after all those weeks. He had not even checked the bow for signs of disrepair. Garrett gave in to the call of sleep, promising himself a brand new set of arrows when he woke next. Perhaps then he would be able to make that hated scrap of red fabric move.

He was not disappointed. After a quick trip to the smithy across the street the following evening, Garrett returned with a new bowstring and a bundle of freshly fletched arrows. He inspected each one, the shafts straight and the weight balanced as far as he could tell. He glared at that scrap of red fabric, hanging so innocently on the far wall. Arrow knocked, he drew, the new string feeling heavier, almost crisp. The motion was so fluid and practiced that it somehow felt natural.

The arrow loosed, almost singing through the air before a loud crack marked the end of its flight. It rebounded off the wall just beside the red fabric and came to a magnificent clattering finish. Garrett could have leapt for joy but instead he drew another arrow, careful to notch it just as he had the first. He drew, loosed. That time the corner of the fabric moved. Another arrow, just to the left, and another hit just below. He fired the remainder of the new arrows in his quiver, something like satisfaction blooming deep in his chest.

It had not been just him, then. The perseverance had only served to perfect his technique but since his arrows had been in disrepair he had not noticed his improvement. With fresh equipment he finally witnessed his hard work paying off. New possibilities flooded his head and he quickly set aside his bow in favor of a pen and paper. A quick sketch later and he found himself looking at what would be his next endeavor. Arrow tips. Not only for defense but also for stealth and distraction. Garrett scribbled furiously, jotting down every idea he came up with. If he could get the balance right, he could wrap a thin rope around a thin shaft and attach it to a grapple-like device that would close upon impact. Getting up to higher places would be easy if he had a quiver full of arrows with rope attached that he could shoot at any point strong enough to hold the weight.

Garrett’s eyes glanced over to the blazing fire, the light making him squint for a moment. Another idea donned on him. A glass arrowhead containing water could easily put out a torch if aimed right. Black powder with a shard of flint could have a fiery impact. Garrett’s mind raced with the possibilities and not for the first time he wished to have his old stash of books. One of them had contained alchemic recipes. No matter. The bookshop on the plaza had a wide selection that he had perused on a few occasions; one was bound to have recipes for chemical compounds.

The scribbles before him held so much promise, but there was one downfall. He was no metalworker. He had barely started to try his hand at sewing leather. To make such complex designs with metal and glass would require an expert and Garrett simply did not have the time or the patience to learn such a trade.

But what he did have was the smith across the street.

_If I give him the plans and enough incentive I might just be able to commission that smith. A bit of coin might help persuade him as well._

\---

Garrett darted over the tiled rooftops, vaulted over the massive metal pipes that snaked through the modestly adorned houses. He dropped down to the street, feet splashing noisily in a puddle. He secured the leather hood about his head, the pounding of rain against it inhibiting his ability to hear the approach of any guards. Luckily he did not need to rely just on his hearing; the Watch always carried bright lanterns whenever it rained. He waited for the watchman to pass by before he slipped across the street, the noise his feet made on the wet cobblestones drowned out by the downpour. Even so there was no doubt the watchman would not be able to hear much over the racket the rain was making on his metal helmet.

The destination loomed overhead: a high balcony with a broad glass door. The wooden bow was in his hand, an arrow in the other. Notch, draw, loose. One fluid motion. The overhanging beam was struck, a coil of rope falling loose as the metal clamp met its mark. No watchmen in sight, Garrett began his ascent. It had taken him time but he eventually had grown used to climbing up the thin rope. The leather gloves he had fashioned helped immensely, though he had a long list of tweaks to them that he had yet to implement.

Garrett swung himself onto the narrow balcony, pulling the rope up and coiling it on the railing. No use in risking a watchman getting slapped in the face by the rope and drawing undue attention. The lock on the door was a simple one to pick and soon Garrett was in. He grimaced as he finally felt the wet making his clothes stick uncomfortably to him. No matter, he had a room to loot. It was a study, more for show than actual work Garrett figured.

_These people have more rooms filled with stuff than they know what to do with. Good thing I’m here to help take some of it off their hands_.

The bag strung on his back was quickly filled with fine candlesticks, a number of pens, and a letter opener that would fetch a good price. Garrett stole a glance at the bookshelf but reluctantly refrained from glancing over the titles. Even in his bag and under the cloak he wore, any book he took would be waterlogged and ruined by the time he got back to his house. He was about to make his exit when a voice on the opposite side of the door made him stop. Garrett melted into the shadows just in case they decided to finally enter the room as he listened in.

“I swear, that whole project has been cursed from the start.” A man’s deep voice.

A woman replied. “Oh please, you can’t think that way. It’s nonsense, darling.”

“It’s the Baron! It’s all those Northcrests! They’ve angered the Builder and now they can’t even fix that damned Clock Tower without killing people.” The man grew agitated, exasperated.

“Be quiet!” The woman whispered harshly. Garrett leaned closer to the door to hear. “You know what they do to people who mention the Old Gods!”

“Can’t be worse than the curse the Builder has put on that tower. First the chief engineer, and now another worker sent to go fix it!”

“But they got it working again, right? So what does it matter?”

The man was obviously not pleased with his wife’s response. “How can you say that? It’s haunted. Everyone says so. I was just talking to Billy down at the butchery-”

Garrett had heard enough. He made a silent departure, latching the balcony’s glass door behind him.

The Clock Tower. Haunted? Garrett was skeptical. In all twenty years of his life he had yet to see an apparition or any signs of life after death for that matter. The instant he saw a ghost he would believe in them. Until then he was the closest thing to a ghost in this city.

It was time that he acted like one.

Haunting that Clock Tower seemed to be a good place to start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *squirms and sobs on the floor* I loooove it when characters rise above their inner demons. Even though I'm writing this, Garrett still surprises me with how strong he is.


	19. Chapter 19

The tower loomed over the whole of The City, a sentinel and a beacon. Only three of the four sides of the clock had lit faces, the fourth boarded up. Still under construction, then. Despite the tower being in disrepair, it was quite the feat of engineering, five stories high and solidly built. The scaffolding clinging to the sides like so many cobwebs did not look so steady. Why the structure had claimed so many lives during its construction, Garrett did not have to guess. He would just have to avoid all the mistakes the workers had made up until then on those haphazard boards jutting out from the high stone structure.

Luckily Garrett was well versed in traversing high above the streets and the grappling hook at his belt was an extra reassurance.

Garrett stared up at the immense structure from across the plaza, calculating just where he would begin making his ascent. The tall door at the front of the structure was almost too conventional for his tastes, but until he found a more plausible entrance it would have to do. Garrett waited for the Watch patrol to turn down the corner and he stole into the entranceway. The high wooden doors were not even locked. Either the workers were careless or they figured no one would dare enter the tower since the structure was supposedly haunted. Garrett took the open invitation and shut the door behind him. What he came across within was a shamble. Outside, the tall structure was solid and grand but inside the intricate stone work was all but smothered with little more thought or care than a storage closet.

Work equipment was stashed in one corner, a stack of plywood taking up another corner. Garrett had expected a grand, beautiful and richly polished interior. While the stonework was intricate and strong, the Clock Tower was merely a shell of grandeur, holding nothing within but dust and the shambles of construction. It was quite like The City in that sense.

Garrett looked up, the wide open space leading to nowhere but a solid ceiling. It became painfully obvious that there was a key element missing. There was no way to get from the first floor up to the second. It seemed that the tower was not only plagued with imagined ghosts, but also a convoluted floor plan. It was as if the project had changed hands multiple times in-between the building of the different stories. He already knew that they would have had to change engineers when the last one had been crushed in the gears. It would not be much of a surprise to find that more than one construction manager had his fingerprints all over the structure.

Even with no discernible way to get to the second floor, the workers had to be able to do it somehow. Perhaps they used a pulley system to hoist individual workers up to the scaffolding. Garrett did not have that luxury, but he did have his grappling hook and his rope arrows. Garrett quickly exited via the heavy wooden doors and slipped around the side of the tower, away from the prying eyes of the Watch. He needed a new way up, but the scaffolding did not start until halfway up the massive structure.

The rooftops. It was the only way to get to the upper stories. Garrett circled behind the Clock Tower, seeking a path up. Eventually he found a stack of crates a ways down the street that allowed him to pull himself up. He dared glance upward at the monstrosity, more than slightly daunted at the height even where he stood on the roof. Garrett steeled himself, more determined than ever. The lowest bar of scaffolding was just low enough that if he used a rope arrow he could jump to grab it and climb from there. It was not ideal, but it was the best path he could see for the moment.

Garrett pulled his bow out of the quiver secured to his back and strung it with a fluid motion. The beam was further than he was used to aiming, so he slowed and took his time carefully aiming a precious rope arrow. It loosed and there was a crack as the metal grip attached to the beam. The rope unraveled and swung just within reach. After giving it a swift tug to make sure it was secure, Garrett pulled himself up. It took some doing, but he eventually swung his way on top of the beam. It was broader than he had anticipated and thankfully steadier. Next it was just a matter of following the path of the scaffolding around the tower until he found a way inside.

That was easy in theory, but not so in reality. Luckily Garrett was far used to coming across unforeseen challenges. He came to a dead end, the beams he had been leaping across stopping abruptly. Above there was a pulley system that Garrett would hardly trust even with a bucket of water, let alone his life. Another rope arrow was the solution. Up on the next level of scaffolding, Garrett continued to make his way around the structure. He glanced up after every leap from one beam to the next. As he eased his way around the corner, he looked up again.

There. A window just beside the massive glowing clock face. Just a little further. Garrett leapt and grabbed the scaffolding above him, still surprised that it did not budge at all. He had expected the wood to crumble away, but apparently they had constructed those beams better than they had thought out the floors of the tower. Unfortunately that was where the scaffolding stopped. It was just him and the stone from there on up. Luckily the architect had thought to put embellishments in the stonework even that high up, creating relative shelves that served as hand and footholds. It seemed a waste to have such lavish adornments so far away from the view of the streets. Then again it was being admired, though not by someone the architect had ever anticipated.

He dared not look down as he ascended to the narrow ledge, the glowing clock face almost blinding and much larger up close than from down on the streets. It was so bright, like a second moon. No wonder it could be seen from anywhere in The City. He crept along the narrow ledge, quite aware that if anyone happened to look up they would see a small figure shuffling along just beside the great grand hands of the clock. Luckily the clock read three A.M. No one but desperate beggars and the Watch were out that late.

_Well, them and me._

Finally he reached the window and was surprised to find that it had no coverings, not even glass.

_No need for locks this high up. Not that they could stop a ghost from passing through_.

Garrett swept aside the tattered drapes and entered the Clock Tower. It smelled of wood wetted and dried a hundred times over from rain and sun through the tattered roof, the hard and cold smell of stone, and laced all through was the crisp smell of metal and clean machine oil. Beams of light permeated the dark, the lit clock faces adding a second glow to the interior. Years of dust clung to every surface and Garrett’s leathered feet left footprints wherever he stepped.

The space he came to seemed to be a workshop, used by the workers who had built the structure and by the next soul brave enough to climb the tower. Perhaps it had also been used during the construction of the monstrous mechanism filling the middle of the space. It whirred and clicked, like some mechanical creature. The sounds permeated Garrett’s chest, filling him and for one moment he ceased to be and listened only to that deep whirr, those massive gears turning together in some endless grand coordinated dance.

As with the outside, the adornments on the walls and even in the wooden railing were intricate to the point of absurdity. It was a grandiose thing to have such decorations so high up on the tower, but to have them inside where only the clock workers could see…

_At least someone is admiring all the handiwork._

Garrett ventured deeper into the workshop, the wooden structure lined with tables and shelves long gone abandoned. Barrels and crates stood at the end beside a window similar to the one he had entered from. His venture took him down a set of wooden stairs and he came face to face with the clockwork. It dwarfed him, the sight more intimidating than any building he had yet seen in The City. Then again, this was not just any building. This was the heart of The City itself, beating out a rhythm only he could hear. It was a masterpiece of engineering, quite like the grand structure of the tower itself.

Below the stairs was an alcove littered with odds and ends left over from the construction of the clockwork. There were trunks filled with tools and documents detailing wages and deeds. Off to his right was a haphazard pile of crates, work benches and cupboards obviously used during construction but pushed aside and forgotten. It must have taken some doing to hoist them all the way up here; no use in hoisting them down again.

Garrett swept a wide glance about the space, felt that steady whirr of wheels turning and gears grinding. It was the perfect place for a ghost to haunt. Far removed from the streets yet the central part of The City standing sentinel over the people. It was a lofty prize with a heavy hint of mystery and a reputation. A mirthless grin tugged at Garrett’s lip.

_Seems we have that much in common_.

It was in that moment that Garrett knew he had found his place. He was the ghost high up in the tower, looking down at the streets that had given him all he needed in his youth and taken much more. It was time to start taking back. Might as well start with the heart of The City.

\---

The stairs leading to the second floor stood before him, the dark thickening as they ascended. After so long, those whispers had never truly fallen silent. They still echoed about his childhood home, those distant memories of both joy and sorrow. They were so far gone that Garrett could no sooner grab them than smoke. Yet they hung heavy about him, weighing him down until it was a struggle to walk forward. The stairs creaked under his feet and he hardly heard it, the walls seeming to close in around him. That familiar clench in his throat returned. Garrett struggled for breath but still he continued up.

He had to face it. He had to bid that haunting nightmare farewell once and for all. For so long it had hung over his head, smearing every thought and plaguing his dreams. For the first time he could remember he had a future that was not wrought with what-ifs. He had a place to live that was all his own. The past week he had spent cleaning up the Clock Tower, sorting through the junk and rebuilding the space into a home. He had even found a bed frame among the piles of furniture and with a clever pulley system had painstakingly hoisted an only slightly used mattress into the tower.

The hallway stretched out before him, the air clinging to his throat. Whispers swept past him as he shoved the door to his parents’ room open. It was empty. Garrett was not entirely sure what he had expected. His long-dead parents to be safely asleep in their bed? No. He was no longer that child. That was no longer his life. The window had been boarded over but not before years of dirt and soot had been swept in.

Something unclenched in Garrett’s chest, something that he had been holding onto for the past year. It was the childish hope that if he opened that door that somehow everything would be okay. It had always been that way in his youth; all he had to do when he was scared was go through that door and the nightmares would be swept away by a warm hug he could no longer recall the feeling of and the ghost of a smile he could no longer see. They were gone. He was truly alone.

It was somehow reassuring. They were not there to get hurt, not there for him to worry about. He could rely on himself; he needed no one else.

Garrett closed the door and opened the next. That thick beam of moonlight was just barely on the far side of the room. It was still early in the evening. He found himself venturing into the room, sitting on the floor just below the window where his bed once stood. He looked up, the moonlight cutting through that thick blackness. No scream issued from downstairs, no helmeted guard stood over him. The nightmare had passed.

Now Garrett could hear the distant sounds of The City: a crow rasping, watchmen discussing the cool winter night as they made their rounds. His eyesight was piercing, his hearing keen. Whereas these heightened senses used to overwhelm him, now he used it to his advantage. He was hyperaware of his surroundings and thus alert to potential threats. He had honed his skills and could strike a watchman with his new blackjack and send him to the ground. He could shatter a glass bottle with an arrow from across the street, drawing attention of any passing guards. He was a ghost, haunting the streets and from that night on watching them from his lofty Clock Tower.

He stood, knowing that the watchman was not there to grab him and drag him away. He was in control. Garrett had entered that room for the first time in fourteen years still a child. He left it for the last time a man grown.

Garrett stepped down the stairs with something like peace settling about him. He came to his pile of equipment and began the process of putting it all on. A snug leather jacket with attached hood, the quiver and bow that had served him so well, his blackjack at his hip and grappling hook at the other. Over it all he swept his cloak, securing it over his shoulders. Next was his scarf, tucked up over his nose. With everything secured, Garrett made to leave but stopped, looking at the dark hearth. There was one piece he was missing, one piece of information that stopped him.

The guard in Pavelock prison had told him he could see his face as clear as the moon. It was the only advice a member of the Watch had given him that was useful. The lower half of his face was covered but the rest was still exposed.

The answer stood right before him. He swept two fingers across the soot covered hearth, the fine black dust coating them. This he smeared around both eyes, blinking as the soot fell into them. It was not perfect but it would have to do until he found something better.

Thus, Garrett exited his childhood home a different man. One with nightmares in his past and still more to face in his future. But now he had tools to use, skills to utilize. He was no longer haunted but instead became the ghost himself.

\---

The City was in chaos. As soon as Garrett stepped out of the Clock Tower onto the roofs from the convenient entrance he had discovered soon after relocating there, he felt something amiss on the streets. It was not outward chaos with riots and burning, but disquiet behind locked doors and hushed conversations among people in dark alleyways.

Garrett was more vigilant than usual as he worked his way around the rooftops and along the Thief’s Highway. The City was restless and volatile. Something had changed and Garrett was not about to step into an ugly situation without first knowing the cause of it.

Luckily people did not lower their voices when they spoke inside their homes, no doubt thinking they were protected by those thin walls and drafty windows. Garrett sided up to one of the latter and listened in on a particularly loud conversation.

“You would think that he would have more respect for us than this! What with all his machines and factories you would think he would honor the people who built them and maintain them.” The gruff voice of a burly man issued from just beyond the window, the intensity with which he spoke threatened to rattle the glass.

“No taffing shit!” Another man’s voice, words slurred with heavy drink. “That Baron fucking Northcrest don’t have no respect. My cousin, he almost died in one of them factories and has had to live off of help from the Worker’s Guild these past few months. Now where is he gonna get help? That fucking Baron’s new Council or whatever they are calling it won’t help him. They aren’t gonna help any of us!”

“It’s all gone to shit, that’s what’s happening. We just have to fend for ourselves while the rich drink their honeyed wine and eat cakes.” The first man spat.

“I really like cake!” The second man stumbled over his infuriated words, hardly seeming to know what he was saying.

Garrett had heard enough. The conversation would dissolve into an angry bantering rant from that point on, the two men no doubt preparing to drink all their woes away.

_So the Baron has disbanded the guilds. Seems I won’t have to worry about the Thief’s Guild anymore. Bad for The City but good for me._

It was about time something went his way.

Garrett secured the scarf about his face, hoping the kohl he had smeared around his eyes was dark enough to obscure his pale face. No doubt there were still members of the guild that knew his face and held a grudge; might as well be careful.

With that small bit of reassurance, Garrett set out for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers! I just want to thank you for continuing to read my little fic. I really enjoy writing it and I dearly hope you enjoy reading it.


	20. Chapter 20

Two weeks passed since Baron Elias Northcrest had officially disbanded the guilds and formed the Baron’s Council. It was well into the winter months and the streets were practically empty as Garrett darted from one shadow to the next. It was strange returning to Stonemarket after being gone for a year. It was as if nothing had changed. The people were still all the same, the beggars no doubt covered in the same filth as the previous winter. Or perhaps they were waiting for the next rain to wash away the grime.

That had never been one of Garrett’s practices. It was no use sneaking around when the Watch could smell him from a block away. He took extreme measures in remaining undetectable, even going so far as to find the leather oil that smelled the least. As far as he knew, Garrett smelled of The City, of the stone of the Clock Tower and of the smoke billowing out from the Baron’s factories.

He was the ghost that haunted; not even the guard with the keenest senses could detect him and he was seen only when he wanted to be. That was not very often.

That brought Garrett to the purpose of his venture out into the dark streets. He had a bag heavy with valuables to sell and a fence to reacquaint himself with. That wide alleyway presented itself to him, the path to the double-hinged window all too familiar. It was an easy thing climbing up and avoiding the drunken man slumped at the far end of the alley. Garrett tapped the customary two times on the window, the frame just slightly looser than the last time he had called upon his fence. A swift tug dislodged the next to useless latch and he swept into Basso’s apartment.

The man barely caught his chair from falling when he jolted out of it. It took half a second for that wide, suspicious gaze to recognize him. “Garrett?” That voice was so familiar it was almost comforting. Garrett pulled the silk scarf down to his chin and a new wave of relief passed over the fence. “Damn I thought they got you more than a year ago. Where’ve you been?”

“Dayport,” was the simple response.

“Dayport,” Basso repeated in a deadpan. He ran a thick hand down his face, cheeks just slightly fuller than the last time Garrett had seen him. Basso sighed. “Just up the street and you don’t visit for a year?”

The corner of Garrett’s lip twitched from bemusement or annoyance, he could not tell which. A mixture of both was most likely. “You can thank the guild for keeping me away.”

Basso scoffed at him. “They stopped caring about you as soon as you disappeared.” Garrett’s gut sank at that piece of information. He had been hiding for that long for nothing? Basso’s next words reassured him enough but that pit of regret remained. “Though I don’t blame you for being careful.” Basso coughed twice, the sound dry. Apparently that twinge of smoke that hung about the air was not from the stove but from the cold pipe resting atop it. So Basso had found yet another vice. He cleared his throat and continued. “Look Garrett, I’ve had to change my style ever since the Baron got rid of the guilds. I run a sort of business now.”

Garrett shook off the sinking feeling, crossed his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow. “Are you a respectable citizen now?”

“Respectable?” He barked a laugh. “Not so much. I provide a service now.”

Another twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Not a good location for that. The Skinmarket’s just down the street. You have some steep competition.” As much as Garrett enjoyed his solitude, it was nice to have someone to banter with again.

He got the reaction he had been fishing for. Basso floundered, flustered and tried to find his words again. “Would you- would you let me finish? I take jobs for people who need certain things done that they wouldn’t normally find in one of the nice little shops on the plaza. I pass on that job to one of my contacts, they do it, and we both get paid. You interested?”

Now that was an interesting proposition. “What kind of jobs?”

“For you, ones that involve sneaking and thieving. I’ve got a few you can look over just to get a taste.” With that, Basso spread out a few pieces of parchment, a short message scrawled on each one. Some were accompanied by a quick floor plan sketch.

Garrett approached the desk, rifled through the papers. One in particular caught his eye and he pulled it out to further inspect it. It was one that was accompanied by a sketch, not only of the floor plan but also of the desired item. It was a beautiful ring and he was sure that the sketch did not do that huge gemstone justice.

Basso chuckled. “Thought you might like that one. This man Barnes was recently divorced and he wants his dead mom’s ring back from his ex-wife. Says she lives in Eel’s End.”

Garrett was more focused on the floor plan. “Doesn’t sound too hard.”

“No, but her new fiancé is built like a stone brick.”

Garrett slid the parchment back over to his fence. “Sneak in, avoid the fiancé and come back with the ring. It’s almost too easy.”

“What did I say about being arrogant?” Those dark, beady eyes narrowed. He had every right to make such an accusation, though he did not know all the new skills Garrett had gained along with his newfound humility.

“It’s not arrogance, Basso.”

“Oh right, you gonna call it confidence?” He was not at all convinced. Figured.

“I’ll be back with the ring.” Garrett pulled the heavy sack off of his shoulder. “Appraise these while I’m gone. “He dumped the contents onto the desk. Basso had to scramble to stop a gilded goblet from rolling off, the other treasures almost overflowing as well.

Before Basso could conjure up a reaction Garrett was out of the window and well on his way.

Eel’s End was just as grimy and rundown as he remembered, if not more so. There was still tension on the streets and behind closed doors, the Eelbiters on patrol walking with purpose and agitation rather than nonchalance. It would take a lot longer than two weeks for the news of the disbanding of the guilds to settle in the minds of the people. The Thieves’ Highway was devoid of any moving shadows besides his own. Even so, Garrett made sure his face scarf was secure and his hood drawn well over his head.

The apartment was easy to locate despite its tucked away location. It was trickier to get to, as a street frequented by the Eelbiter patrols stood between the Thieves’ Highway and the front door. Garrett took out and restrung his bow, a process almost unconscious but still too time consuming for his liking. He aimed a blunt arrow at a bottle down the street, the sudden shatter drawing the attention of the two Eelbiters below. In that opening, Garrett dropped down to the street and swiftly made his way to the window that led to his destination.

He stopped and listened for any sign of the Eelbiters returning. Hearing none, he hooked his crowbar under the window and pried it open. Inside the apartment was dark, as Garrett would expect at that late hour. He took a swift glance about the room, an entryway of sorts. Seeing no panels on the wall indicating there were hidden traps, he crept further in. He had to remind himself that very few families could even afford that technology in Eel’s End. Still, it never hurt to be cautious. Being overconfident and slipping up most often hurt more. Observing his surroundings was well worth the extra time.

The floor plan ingrained in his memory, he set out for the room that most likely contained the ring he sought. It was upstairs in the bedroom. Garrett stepped delicately up the stairs, careful to test each one to see if it would creak before he put his full weight on it. He reached the upper floor without incident, a tight and short hallway greeting him at the top. These buildings were so poorly constructed and designed it was a wonder anyone managed to move around in them. Garrett was immediately glad to have his spacious home in the Clock Tower, away from the cramped slums and poverty. He had lived that before and he had no desire to go back.

The door on his right ended up being the bathroom: little more than a glorified hole in the wall. Garrett did not want to know where the waste went, hoping it went to the river and not onto the street.

After a quick glance around it was quite apparent that this ex-wife and her so-called brick of a fiancé were piss broke. No wonder they had wanted to keep the ring; neither probably had anything else of value to their name.

Garrett put the thought from his mind. He had a job to do; it was no use thinking about the circumstances of the people he was stealing from. The second door in the hallway was locked. Curious. A few swift turns with his lockpicks and it was open. As soon as the door cracked open, a torrent of gentle noises pierced the still dark. A steady creak, beating out a rhythm that was joined by a wet, fleshly slap. The smallest of noises from someone’s throat added to the chorus, noises of strain and… was that pleasure? One set of heavy breathing, no two. Garrett grimaced. He had expected the ex-wife and her fiancé to be abed, but not so intimately entwined.

No matter. They were too busy with each other to notice a darker spot in the shadows moving. Garrett tried to put the frantic noises from his mind, something like disgust washing through him. He shook his head. He had a job to do and- _there_.

Atop the single dresser at the foot of the bed stood a jewelry box. Locked. Of course. Just as the two on the bed increased the intensity of their coupling, soft noises giving way to a woman’s frantic callings and a man’s grunts of exertion, the lock came undone and Garrett snatched up the ring held within. Not taking the time to admire it, he closed the box and retreated just as the couple on the bed appeared to reach the climactic end of their intimate meeting.

He was well across town before he finally stopped to look at the ring he had taken. It indeed was magnificent, fine silver beautifully entwined around a cloudy white gemstone. The look of it almost made him forget the crawl over his skin he had felt since entering that room so thick with lust and sex. And just that thought brought him back. It was disgusting, the noises, the smell. Garrett had little inclination to even ponder about just why that was so enticing to people. Just the thrill of going undetected was enough to satisfy him and the riches he found were just icing on the cake.

Putting the whole ordeal behind him, he returned to Basso. The loot he had dumped on the man’s desk appeared to still be in a clutter, though Garrett imagined there was some order to the chaos.

Basso looked up from a paper he was scrawling on. “Back already? You got the ring?”

Garrett produced it and set the beautiful piece on the only bare inch of the desk. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand why people get married. Seems a sticky business.”

Basso let out a grunting laugh. “Don’t bother. Women are just trouble, believe me.” He picked up the ring, compared it with the drawing. After a gruff grunt of satisfaction, he produced a bag of coin from a drawer. “Your pay, as promised. I take a percentage of it, of course. Gotta make a living myself.” He plucked out a few coins from the bag. “As for all this,” he gestured to the riches taking up the whole surface of his desk, “I’m not sure I have enough coin on me to pay you for all of it and still have some left over to survive until I sell all of it. As much as I hate to admit it, you might have to take the rest to another fence.” Garrett raised an eyebrow at Basso. “Shocking, I know.”

“Had some hard times while I was gone?”

Basso crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “The Baron dismantling the guilds put a dent in my usual income, I’ll have you know. Not many thieves on the streets these days, ‘cept you of course.”

“I noticed.” Garrett found himself crossing his arms as well, mimicking the fence’s motions. He let his arms fall.

“Good news for you, though,” Basso continued gruffly. “All the other fences in The City must be hurting as much as I am. They’re all at their usual places as far as I know, so they shouldn’t be too hard for you to track down.”

“I know where they are.”

“’Course you do.” Basso spent the next few minutes plucking out the pieces he could buy and adding that coin to the bag he had brought out. Garrett tucked away that pouch along with the rest of the loot. He swung it over his shoulder, the bag bumping a table he had not noticed behind him. A ragged squawk made him start.

“Hey, careful!” Basso practically exploded at him. Garrett made way as the fence brushed him aside, making for the table. A cage sat atop it and within there was a moving ball of fluff and feathers, a continuing high-pitched squawk sounding too loud to be coming out of that tiny body. The more Garrett stared, the uglier it looked.

“You have a new pet?” Garrett tried to keep his tone neutral, but the grating noise the bird was making pulled a grimace across his face.

“I’ve trained a few magpies to carry messages for me. Smart things. This one’s Jenivere.”

“Cute,” Garrett deadpanned as the man fussed over the nestling, its neck stretching out and mouth gaping open. It was getting uglier by the second.

“Useful,” Basso corrected. Somehow he managed to calm the baby magpie down, Garrett glad when the squawks stopped. “I’ll train one to deliver messages to you. Where’re you living now that you’re back to thieving the common rabble?”

“The Clock Tower.”

That got just the response Garrett had expected. It appeared that even Basso was not immune to falling for the myths surrounding the structure. The question he asked Garrett was not quite what he had been anticipating. “You didn’t have anything to do with that worker falling, did you?”

And here Garrett thought that Basso knew him better than that. He pursed his lips and stared hard at the man. “No,” he replied simply.

Basso shrugged. “Good place for you, though. Not likely anyone’s gonna find you up there.”

“That’s the plan.”

Just as Basso closed the door of the cage, the baby bird - Jenivere Garrett reminded himself - started up that droning squawking again. As Basso continued to fuss over his new pet, Garrett made a swift departure. He had loot to sell and the night was growing old. As annoying as the baby bird was, it would be convenient to have Basso’s messages come to him instead of visiting him every night to see if he had any jobs.

\---

A year passed, Garrett settling into a comfortable routine. With the turmoil of the disbanding of the guilds in the past, even The City seemed to have found some semblance of calmness.

That calm was shattered one morning just as Garrett was settling down to sleep the day away. There was a crash that almost shook the Clock Tower itself. It was too close to have come from the street. Following the crash came distant cries of dismay from far below. Now alert and with sleep out of the question, Garrett leapt out of bed and ran up the stairs to the window. He glanced down to the streets below. Among the settling dust were boards he recognized as parts of the scaffolding and the unmistakable but twisted shape of a body. A cold stone dropped through his chest. Yet another life had been claimed by the tower.

That meant that the stories of it being haunted would redouble. It was the only reassurance Garrett had. But what would happen if one of those workers managed to make it to the top of the tower? He did not want to find out. He did not want to be the one responsible for the next life claimed by the Clock Tower. He did not want more blood on his hands.

As the body was removed from the street, leaving a red smear in its place, Garrett sat at his workbench, pulling out an old blueprint of the Clock Tower he had found among the piled junk all those months ago. He was the phantom of the tower, but he was no murderer. He planned traps to set all up and down the scaffolding and within the tower on the stairs as well. Nothing that would kill, but given the superstition surrounding the tower if any worker were to trip them they would be quite deterred from venturing further.


	21. Chapter 21

A rattle echoed up from the first floor of the Clock Tower. This jostled Garrett from his deep sleep, cringing at the light of the day even before he opened his eyes. There were distant voices. Outside, then. From the streets. But that rattle had come from within.

Garrett turned away from the light, tossing the threadbare blanket over his head. No doubt it was just another drunk trying to find shelter away from the rain that had been steadily falling all week. The drunk would leave when they could not climb up. If the climb did not dissuade him, then the traps Garrett had set certainly would. Garrett settled into his mattress, the brief silence from outside making way for the steady hush of rain, and the incessant dripping as it flowed through the crumbling roof. He was glad for that noise. Not two weeks before he had returned from one of Basso’s jobs to find the gears silent, unmoving. For two years he had fallen asleep to that soothing turn of wheels and gears and without it the silence had been unbearable. When the rain had come Garrett had finally gotten a full day’s sleep. That steady drip calmed him, drawing him back to sleep.

The calm did not last long.

There was more commotion, a mechanical clank, a frantic yell. A child. Garrett’s eyes flew open and he sprang out of bed, tossing his blanket aside and ignoring the sting of the light. As Garrett moved to glance down to the winding stairs below, the child continued yelling. Sure enough, the child had sprung the first of a series of traps meant to dissuade trespassers. Unfortunately for the child, the first trap threw a series of bolts at the trespasser. By some miracle the mechanism had faltered and only the lower bolts were loosed. From that high up, Garrett could see that one of them had just scraped the child’s lower leg. At least he hoped that was the extent of the damage.

The wails echoed up the structure, the sound so hauntingly familiar that for a moment Garrett felt himself back in the orphanage. He shook it off. This child, right here right now needed help and he was the only one who could save him. One wrong move and he could set off the next trap.

For a split moment, Garrett thought the child would turn around and return from where he came from. That hopeless thought was dashed as the child gained control over his cries and stood shakily. Despite the growing despair, Garrett was impressed that he had managed to climb up that high. He would have heard the rooftop door open if the child had entered from that point; if opened without lifting the weight off the hinges it made a terrible screech. Those voices outside. They must have hoisted the child up on one of the pulleys. Garrett could have cursed. He should have known they would send someone up to check on the clockwork. He was naïve to think that the officials in The City would allow such a prominent piece of The City to be in disrepair for so long.

The child was on the move again, limping his way up the stairs. He was heading directly into the next trap, or had he already stepped over it? Garrett cursed silently to himself. Everything looked so different in the sunlight and from his high perch he could not tell which step concealed the pressure plate that triggered the next trap. Something needed to be done. He had to stop. Garrett would not allow the death of another orphan on his hands. Not another nameless orphan would haunt the pages of the next day’s newspaper. Not on his watch.

“Stop!” Garrett’s voice echoed down.

It certainly had the effect he wanted. The child practically stumbled to a stop, slipping down one of the stairs and coming to rest on his rump. Even from that high up, Garrett could see his wide, terrified eyes staring into the tall structure above, searching for a face to match with the voice.

A quiet, shaking voice called out. “A-are you the ghost?”

_The ghost of an orphan just like yourself._

“Do exactly as I say or you’ll be the next ghost to haunt this place.” The words made Garrett cringe even as he said them. As theatrical as they were, they seemed to work. “Stand up, turn around and go back down the stairs,” Garrett instructed the child, painfully aware of how his loud voice echoed all down the Clock Tower. If anyone else was within, his hiding place and safety would be compromised. Somehow that did not quite matter in that moment. Only the child’s life mattered.

“I’ll get in trouble! My master will beat me like he beat Kev!” The child was close to tears, but he stood up. He steeled himself and Garrett saw that determination, that persistence, that hope that if he did as he was told by his ‘master’ that everything would be okay. Garrett knew the feeling, knew it as well as the nightmares of his past that never really released him.

The child stepped up the stairs, to the window where the scaffolding continued to wind up the outside of the Clock Tower. Panic gripped Garrett’s chest. “No, go back!” He needed to stop the boy, needed him to-

_Click_.

Horror swept up Garrett. “Don’t _move_.” He hardly recognized his own voice as it rasped out, his body moving without him telling it to. Garrett hardly remembered the last time he had moved so quickly. The path along the scaffolding he knew so well swept by him, his body knowing just how to move and just where to step. He would make it, he had to make it. The newspaper would have no mention of a nameless dead orphan. Not another one.

It was as if he could see everything and nothing at once, the whole Clock Tower and surrounding city spinning as he made his descent.

Garrett felt like the wind itself, hardly even feeling the worn wood beneath his bare feet, the steady rain soaking through his night shirt, through his thin trousers. A thunder seemed to rattle the whole tower and the desperate thought that ran through Garrett’s head was please, please let that be his heart pounding. Please let that be the blood rushing in his ears. Please let that shriek be an echo from his distant past.

He was not fast enough. Garrett lunged and caught only the falling debris that he himself had carefully arranged to be released by the slightest touch of that trip rope. He did not even hear the boy’s scream as he fell, drowned out by the bricks and wooden boards making their noisy descent past the scaffolding. He could not hear the sick, crunching thump as the boy’s body broke against the cobblestone far below.

The trap was not supposed to push the person who triggered it off. It was not supposed to make the boards resting on the scaffolding fall. The falling debris was supposed to startle, not send orphans to their death.

Garrett could hear nothing, could feel nothing. He saw his hand reaching out into thin air, clutching only rain and mud dripping from the emptied trap overhead. There was nothing he could do. The child was gone, taken by the very trap that Garrett himself relied upon to keep him safe. He had been no older than Garrett had been when he escaped the orphanage. Had he not, this could have been his fate. Instead he had run away, but that had only saved himself.

There was another nameless orphan, another pointless death.

And it had been his fault.

Garrett had installed that rope trap. He had arranged those rocks, that debris high above in the scaffolding. He had set the trap to be released on the slightest touch.

His fault.

Another nameless orphan was dead and he had killed him.

Senses rushed back to him in a blinding instant. He felt soiled but this time there was no blood to wash away. Cries of dismay echoed up from the street. They seemed to fill Garrett’s own hollow chest with the grief he could not seem to conjure. It took all of his willpower to creep back into the safety of the Clock Tower, lest any searching eyes glance up and see his silhouette through the curtain of rain.

Eventually the shocked cries disappeared, leaving Garrett to the droning and lonely bustle of the streets far below. He looked up, unfocused eyes seeing the clockwork sitting like some slumbering beast, just waiting to lure the next victim to his death. Somewhere in the distance the deep resounding peal of a bell echoed through the chilly midday air. It was almost lazy, bringing with it the promise of another rainy day before giving way to a calm night.

All Garrett could feel was cold. Cold and numb. The once comforting drip of rain was grating, the droning bell the toll of death.

The rumors were true. The Clock Tower was haunted. Not by a spirit, but by a man too focused on his own safety to think of what consequences would come about in ensuring that safety. Garrett steeled himself. No, he needed that security. He had been careless before and everything he had collected was burned and gone. He had to be selfish or The City would render his life forfeit. He was safe for now, but at what cost?

Garrett continued to stare at the monstrous gears through the thick dust that always seemed to fill the air. That was when he realized something. The boy had been climbing to fix the clock. Just like the man who had fallen before.

No one could climb the Clock Tower. No one but Garrett.

No one could fix the clockwork. No one but Garrett.

No one else had to die, not for the sake of fixing the clock. Garrett would ensure that. It was the least he could do. It was the only way he could make up for the death of the orphan: by finishing the job he had set out to do and preventing any more child workers from risking their lives trying to do the task.

Garrett waited for dark to fall over The City, not able to sleep and not caring how tired he got as the day wore on. Descending the scaffolding, he took special care to step over the traps. He ghosted along the street, knowing exactly where he would find the items needed. It was not the first time he had broken into the deceased engineer’s workshop. It had been taken up by his apprentices after the Clock Tower had claimed his life, but the safe still held all the original blueprints for the grand structure. The apprentices obviously cherished those plans, that grand final work of their mentor.

Basso had sent him on a job in that workshop a year previously. Some rival engineer had wanted to steal the latest and greatest innovations being created. That was when Garrett had seen the blueprints in the safe. He had not thought to grab them then. It had been one of the first jobs he had taken from the fence and not wanting to compromise it he had left with only the item he had been sent to retrieve.

He would have to be careful. There was no knowing what kind of traps the engineers would be testing out in their own workshop; prototypes to sell to the masses if they worked. Garrett was not willing to test them out. As soon as he stepped into the workshop he saw just what new traps those were. On the wall directly across from the wall safe was a metal panel, no doubt loaded with bolts that would impale anything in their path. Garrett stepped softly about, seeing no sign of pressure plates. The trigger had to be in the safe itself, then. Smart, but not smarter than him.

The lock was a tricky one with more pins in it than Garrett had ever encountered. It took more time but eventually he heard the mechanism click open. He pulled open the door and ducked out of the way just in time to avoid the volley of bolts. They clattered noisily on the wall and rebounded off of the metal door of the safe. That would have woken someone.

Garrett quickly looked in the safe and was rewarded for his risks. He snatched up the blueprints along with the notebook he found there and was back on the street before anyone could intercept him.

\---

Garrett glared up at the structure of wheels and gears, the massive thing looking like little more than a massive block of unmoving metal strung together with belts. The bells strung high up on either side seemed an anomaly. Or were they even bells? They very well could be counterweights to keep the pendulum in the clockwork in constant motion. Too bad they were not doing their job or Garrett would already be out on the streets.

The blueprints he had gotten were detailed and precise. That was not the problem. The problem was he had no clue how to read it. It had been days and he was no closer to getting the clockwork to continue keeping time than he had been at the beginning. Only now he knew the names for all of the gears and wheels. It was about all he knew. How they worked, why they worked and what function they had was garbled in the jargon of the blueprints. The chief engineer had either been a genius in his trade or completely daft. If Garrett knew anything about clockwork he would be able to tell the difference. Unfortunately he was not so fortunate.

As a whole week passed since the child worker’s death, Garrett could feel the pressure building. It was a race between the city officials diminishing fear of the haunted clock tower and Garrett’s own ability to comprehend the complex mechanism. Time was running short and he was getting nowhere.

More information, more reading. That was what he needed. Garrett could have cursed. He needed that or to consult with an engineer. The latter was not ideal but time was not in his favor. If he did not get the Clock Tower working again, they would send another orphan up to fix it. Garrett could not and would not risk that. He would rather risk himself getting crushed like the chief engineer than endanger the life of one so like himself but far less fortunate in circumstances.

There was one place he could go. It was an emporium of sorts, to the northeast of the Clock Tower. It was not far. Garrett had seen clockwork mechanisms in the window more than once when he passed by. Certainly it would have a book about fixing clocks somewhere within.

Garrett tossed down the blueprints and readied himself to venture into The City. It had felt like too long since he had set foot on those familiar and filthy cobblestones. The rain had subsided a few days previous so the rooftops would no longer be slick and dangerous to traverse. He would not have to deal with rain in his eyes either. It was a fortunate turn for him in that sense. However, the lack of noise as he tried to sleep kept him awake most of the day. Even that early in the evening Garrett could feel his eyelids droop with the need to rest. He shoved his tiredness aside. If he slept, the death of another child worker was that much closer.

The familiar streets practically swept past him, the usual routes taken by the City Watch easy to bypass. He crept along the Thief’s Highway, past those brightly lit windows and over rooftops. There would be no thieving tonight besides the books he sought. Garrett could not afford the time. He had even neglected to restock his food supplies during his franticly trying to fix the clock. Stale bread and the dregs of dry meat packets had been all that had sustained him for days. It had been enough to keep him going while he was just in his lofty home, but with the exertion of stealing around the streets… Garrett could already feel the empty pit in his stomach complaining as he dropped down from the roofs and clambered down the latter to the streets below.

There it was: Ector’s Emporium. Sure enough there were a number of brass mechanisms on display in the window, alongside other trinkets. It looked dark within and as Garrett stared into the glass, he saw no motion. The shop was empty. Another stroke of luck. That did not diminish his caution for a moment. Relying on luck was a novice mistake. It was only skill and Garrett’s heightened senses that could be relied upon. Even then he was cautious.

Garrett crouched in front of the door and took out his lockpicks. He slipped them in, or at least he tried. They stopped halfway in the keyhole, blocked by something within. Was it a new style of lock? He removed his lockpicks and stared at the handle. If his lockpicks would not work…

Shoving aside his trepidation, Garrett pulled out his crowbar and shattered the window pane closest to the handle with a swift jab. When all else failed, sometimes the simplest method worked. It certainly was not ideal and too noisy for Garrett’s preferred method of business. He would have to make this quick.

Garrett carefully reached in and pulled the handle, the door swinging open. There was a desk right before him, and a bookshelf spanning the entire back wall. There was another desk off to the right that caught Garrett’s eye and his fingers itched to see what those drawers contained. No, he had a mission to do. An important mission. He had to find a book that would be useful, or more orphans would die.

He crept up the stairs to the bookshelf and began his search. The books were about anything from farming to new innovations in the field of alchemy. And that was only on the first shelf. Garrett took in a breath and let it out slowly. The noise from the shattered glass had undoubtedly caught someone’s attention. His time was already short and now he had near three hundred books to look through. Well, he had to start somewhere.

Each shelf his anxiety grew, his eyes skipping over words in his haste. More than once he had to re-read a title because he heard the creak of the building as it settled, or the caw of a bird woken on its perch outside. Despite this distraction, he had managed to pull out three different books that looked promising. These he tucked away in the bag slung over his shoulder. He was just flipping through a fourth when a motion out of the corner of his eye caught him.

That motion was followed by a man gently clearing his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey taffers! I'm currently taking a break writing this to work on my gay pirate story. I've got one more chapter written, so that'll get posted next week. So expect a bit of a hiatus after next week's chapter! As always, thank you for reading.


	22. Chapter 22

Garrett dropped the book and spun, ready to spring into motion.

“Quite the scholar, are we?” Garrett could detect no malice in the thin and hesitant voice, the figure that emerged into the shop slight and slender. If worse came to worst he did not look that difficult to take down. Just one whack with his blackjack and- “Any normal thief would go for the drawers behind my desk. Why are you just looking at my books?” The man had a nervous way of talking, just a little too fast in places with hesitating pauses in others. Surely any man would be on edge if he found a darkly dressed and hooded stranger perusing the wares well after nightfall.

Garrett remained silent, though he bent to pick up the book he had dropped, never taking his eyes off of the man before him. At that distance if he ran now, no matter how quick the man moved he would be able to get away.

“Are you looking for anything in particular? I normally keep my business open during the day but I’ll make an exception for you. You look like the sort who does business in the dark.” The man made a vague gesture to his face, no doubt indicating that he was talking about the scarf covering Garrett’s lower face. When Garrett again did not respond, still weighing his options as to whether he should run or stay, the man spoke again. “I am Ector. I’m a clockmaker, tinkerer, and all-around hobbyist. What’s that book you have, _Cogs and Gears_? Are you interested in clocks?”

“I’ve got one that needs to be fixed,” Garrett chanced to respond. Somehow this man did not seem to be a threat. Still, he kept his guard up, balancing on the balls of his feet just in case a quick escape was necessary.

“You’re not much of a mechanic, I can tell.” He motioned to the broken window pane on the door.

Garrett frowned, never glancing away from the man. “You have an unusual lock.”

“Engineered it myself.” Was that… pride? It was hard to discern in the man’s tentative way of speaking. “I’ve heard of many shops getting broken into without any sign of entry. I thought it would be useful to construct a lock that could not be picked open. Looks like I got that right, but I might have to rethink the design of the door itself.” The man gave a short and unsteady laugh, though it appeared to do little to settle his nerves. “You have a clock that needs fixing, then? I happen to be very good with clockwork. I could look at it for a fee. Do you have it with you?”

“It’s not the kind of clock you carry.”

“Grandfather clock, then? Or one that rests on a mantle? Those are simple enough to fix. I could do a home visit during the day.” This man was being so helpful it put Garrett on edge. No one was helpful without an ulterior motive. Whether that was murderous or just that he did not want his books stolen, Garrett did not know. He was taking no chances.

“I’m the only one who can fix it. I just need to know how.”

Ector shrugged. “Well those books you have will help you with small projects and the basics, but to truly fix something you need an expert’s touch. What style of clock is it?”

“Big.”

The man sighed. “Now that’s helpful,” heavy sarcasm. “Any more _useful_ information you have?”

“I have blueprints.”

“Perfect!” Ector’s enthusiasm was almost startling. “Do you at least have those with you?” Upon the blank look he received he sighed again. “Alright then. Bring them tomorrow. Early evening works for me; I can hardly begin to sleep before midnight these days. I’ll leave the door unlocked so I won’t have to fix it… again.”

Garrett glared at him, hesitating just a moment longer before nodding. He turned towards the door.

“Ah, I would ask that you return my books to me. The ones you took won’t help you anyways.” Garrett stopped in his tracks. Just how long had Ector been watching him? How desperate was he to find information that he could miss someone enter a room? In a few swift motions his bag was empty and the books were placed on the desk. Ector nodded and turned away, obviously placing too much trust in the man who had broken into his shop.

Perhaps he was just a good judge of character, because Garrett left the shop empty handed. When he returned to the Clock Tower, however, his bag was heavy with food he had lifted from various stands on his route home. No sense in starving himself. He thought upon what had transpired in Ector’s shop. The man was either extremely intelligent or quite naïve. Possibly a mixture of both. Nonetheless he seemed like a good resource to have. Perhaps he could make sense out of the blueprints.

The next night Garrett tucked the blueprints into his loot bag and strung it across his back. For once it was not his intention to fill his bag. Rather, to gain knowledge. But who knew, the night was still young. He might still be able to snatch a few trinkets. Not until he got information from Ector, however. He could not risk crumpling the rolls of paper with such intricate illustrations and diagrams. No doubt it was the only copy that existed; genius engineers tended to be selfish with their designs.

When he reached the emporium he found, sure enough, that Ector had been true to his word and the door handle turned easily. The broken glass had been hastily repaired with a thin piece of wood nailed to the frame. Ector might be knowledgeable about clockwork but he was rubbish at woodworking.

And there he was, sitting behind his desk with a pile of work set before him. The thin man looked up from the project he was working on, a magnifying spectacle clenched with one eye. This was removed as the man greeted his guest. “Welcome, I trust you brought the blueprints you mentioned?”

Garrett produced them from his sack and Ector took them with a nod. He unrolled them on his table, keen eyes scanning the paper. It appeared to take a moment, but soon enough his gaze widened, his jaw slackened, and he turned his head up to look at Garrett, pure astonishment plain on his face.

“The Clock Tower’s clockwork blueprints? These have been jealously guarded for- for- well for as long as there has been a Clock Tower! How did you ever manage to get these?” Garrett crossed his arms, his answer a silent stare. Ector shook his head, waving him off. “No, I should not ask. Someone in your line of work, I’m sure your methods are just as secret as, well, as these blueprints.” He fell silent, pouring over the paper, running his thin fingers over the lines so delicately, almost lovingly. There was such passion in the movements, in how intently his eyes focused on the intricate designs. He seemed to forget that Garrett stood on the other side of the desk until he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Ector looked up from the page, eyes taking a moment to adjust. “Sorry, this is all just so fascinating. It’s a genius of design, truly.”

“Can you make sense of it?”

Ector turned back to the paper, pulling his lit candle closer and drawing a magnifying glass to his eye. “Oh yes, but it will take time for me to fully understand it.”

“I need to fix it as soon as possible.”

It took him a moment to respond, his mind absorbed in the blueprint. “Oh yes, of course.” And he fell silent once more. Garrett stared at him until the man finally pried his attention away again. “Oh this is grand. Normally I would charge quite the sum for a rush job as large as this, but simply getting to see and study these blueprints is payment in itself. In fact, I should be paying you for this pleasure!” Ector sounded positively gleeful. Garrett scowled.

“Just tell me what I need to fix.”

“It’s hard to say without me actually looking at the mechanism, though you won’t catch me dead climbing all the way up there. That tower has claimed the lives of far too many men in recent years. I don’t mean to brag but my mind is too valuable to end up splattered on the street. Here,” he pointed a finger at a specific part of the blueprint, “there are some bands that look like they would wear down after some time. Give me a moment and I’ll calculate how long they are so you can replace them. Other than that I’ll have to look at this in more depth without you breathing down my neck the whole time. There’s a reason why I don’t have apprentices.”

With that the man fell silent, scratching out some numbers with a pen on a scrap of paper. It hardly took him any time before he pushed the paper over to Garrett. “Here is the length. You’ll need some good strong rope with not too much give. I’m sure with your skill you’ll find it easily. Come back in a few days and I’ll have more information for you.”

A few days passed and Garrett returned. The ropes he had installed fit perfectly, but the clockwork was still woefully silent and still. As soon as he opened the door to Ector’s Emporium the man stood from his desk. His clothes were ragged, his hair disheveled. All about him stood plates and cutlery with bits of old food still stuck to them. He apparently had not moved the whole time Garrett had been away. Garrett was just glad that the man had enough sense to relieve himself elsewhere.

“This is a magnificent piece of work!” He exclaimed, forgoing any greeting. Garrett silently approached the desk to find the blueprints spread all about. No wait, those were not his blueprints.

“Been working hard?” Garrett’s tone was almost challenging, soft as it was.

“Oh yes indeed,” Ector nodded, some kind of fervor driving him on. His usually steady hands shook and his eyes were wider than normal. Garrett knew the signs all too well, having experienced them time and again: Ector had not slept in days. “Look, look,” he shuffled the large papers around, “I’ve transferred the more complex structures into readable pieces. See this one?” He pulled out one of the drawings from the stack and turned it so it was facing Garrett. “These are the inner workings of the clockwork. Look at how simple, how elegant!” He spoke like a man describing a dancing woman on the street.

Indeed, the drawings were quite clear. Even to Garrett’s untrained eye he could see how each gear turned the next. It was quite an elegant design.

“Now, now,” Ector continued on, words almost spilling forth as if he could not wait to get them out, “right here is where there would be the most stress,” he pointed to a spot on the illustration where two gears met. “If I am any judge as to these things, which I truly am, I would have to say that this small gear would have to be replaced quite frequently due to wear. I assume that the metal they used in constructing this is old, so the quality is not as fine as the new innovations our dear Baron’s factories are concocting. Hell, a new gear made with this new metal would last ten years or more instead of the two or three years they probably got out of the old stuff.”

Garrett let the man’s pause stretch out before he responded. “Can you make a new gear if I bring the old one?”

Ector shook his head and whatever hope Garrett had dropped to the floor. “If I am correct, which I know I am, that gear will be worn and warped beyond recognition. I’ll need one that is fresh and new. Luckily, the workers no doubt have a few lying around for when it needs replacing. Might even be stored in the Clock Tower itself.”

\---

The steady thrum and turn of gears beat a whirring tune in Garrett’s chest. It had taken another week of fiddling around with the huge mechanism before he finally figured out just what gear fit in with the next, and another week after that before he finally got the things to move. Jumpstarting the mechanism was quite an ordeal in itself and Garrett had a first-hand experience of just why the chief engineer had met his fatal end. Fortunately he was experienced in getting out of tight situations quickly. If not, he most certainly would have lost a leg.

As it was, even after the countless hours of frustration and the unfortunately necessary consultations with Ector, it was nice to have that steady whir filling the air once again. It also meant that no more workers would need to climb the hazardous scaffolding to work on it. In fact, it added to the stories of the Clock Tower being haunted.

Garrett stood at the window of his home, the thrum of the huge clockwork finally filling that stifling void he had endured for so long. As he listened to the noise he glanced over The City below, the first touch of sun gracing the horizon and turning the world to shades of gray.

It felt for the first time that Garrett had a place that was just his own. It was stolen, just like everything else in his life, yet there was some pride that dwelled deep in his chest. Whether it came from his acquisition of the heart of The City or for the hard work he had put into it… it did not quite matter. The clockwork gave a great clunk behind him, the short hand on the illuminated clock face to his left turning into its next position with a resounding thrum. It was odd, but just that sound was comforting. It was the reminder that no matter what hardships Garrett went through and with effort put in on his part, time would indeed go on.

As The City went on, so would he. He was borne of the shadows, of the streets. He survived off of the riches of the wealthy, and from them carved out his life. He was the ghost that slipped unseen through walls, the phantom that haunted the heart of The City. Garrett needed no one but himself and the shadows that held him. With his tools and his sharp mind he could accomplish anything. And so with these strengths, Garrett strove to accomplish all that he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends, school work and my other writing project have taken up all my writing energy, so this'll go on hiatus for a little while. I've still got plans for little Garrett, so hopefully I won't just abandon him!  
> Thank you for your continued support.


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